She comes to me phantasm, midnight-
                blurry, my wishwife in salmon petticoat,
                                flushed flutter and click of her pink- & grey-
 
scale. Her upside-down boat, my wet bell:
                seaweed cloud, indigo rust, her pitted coral
                                cheek. I pocket bubbles, knot my fingers
 
into the anchor's chain, reach for her slick
                neck and a sip of breath. O widow, hail
                                the siren's ruin: she promises a shipwreck
 
soon, drowns his fists & sways the moon,
                tomorrow he'll be no more. Sand notches
                                my cheek: awake, ashore. I steady
 
my vision—her fishface echoes—against
                the horizon and begin the day's search.
                                Fisherman, sailor, husband. Scanning
 
for the blur of boat that signals his return.
                A friend invites me for sushi, her tongue tempting
                                with superwhite tuna melting like a pat of butter.
 
She manipulates another fleshy bite
                with her chopsticks. The pink flash
                                of her tongue carries me back into dream
 
and the world monochromes. Gasping
                in the moon pool, all silver-blue and seasalt-
                                white, her line cast, hook fast in the corner
 
of my mouth. She sighs a promise of gills
                but still I hear his fist, hard and steady,
                                keeping time. Our diving bell sinks deeper
 
into the mirrored world, her mouth
                hard against mine in this, our last act,
                                final art. O widow, hail the siren's ruin:
 
she promises a shipwreck
                soon, drowns his fists & sways
                                the moon, tomorrow he'll be no more.