It’s the Aegean, windless, rustling
between blackness and light. The boat

carries us to the rock shore. Rock
against wood, you cling to me

ask me to drown you out here,
the death-melt where salt and sky touch. Limbs

are for trees, not bodies, I tell you. Stay
here with me. Stay.

The rocking of bodies
pressed together like prayer hands

all bruise and red skin etchings.
This is not the last time we die.

The terrarium we’re kept in
shines, diorama of beach glass and soil,

shells of dead animals dampening,
wounded skin is the purple of sky

on your wedding day.
He, in the distance, beams a green light:

If by water, or marriage, I leave you.
Beneath the boat, waves take back what they once

yearned for: Your dress of skin
hulling me with its green luster,

I watch you
walk the path of beach skulls.