I walked to the end of the pier
and threw your name into the sea,
and when you flew back to me-
a silver fish-I devoured you,
cleaned you to the bone. I was through.
But then you came back again:
as sun on water. I reached for you,
skimmed my hands over the light of you.
And when the sky darkened,
again, I thought it was over, but then,
you became water. I closed my eyes
and lay on top of you, swallowed you,
let you swallow me too. And when
you carried my body back to shore-
as I trusted that you would do-
well, then, you became shore too,
and I knew, finally, I would never be through.



About this poem
"I've been thinking about the things we can't shake-the people, the memories, the habits that return to us over and over. Just when we think they're gone, they come back to us in some other form. Best, it seems, to acknowledge and welcome them, to ride the wave until, inevitably, it's gone again."
-Nicole Callihan

About Nicole Callihan
Nicole Callihan is the author of "The Deeply Flawed Human" (Deadly Chaps, 2016). She teaches at New York University and lives in Brooklyn, N.Y.

***
The Academy of American Poets is a nonprofit, mission-driven organization, whose aim is to make poetry available to a wider audience. Email The Academy at poem-a-day[at]poets.org.


(c) 2016 Nicole Callihan. Originally published in Poem-a-Day, www.poets.org. Distributed by King Features Syndicate