Cement-dry August. All day, I’ve studied my memories. The past will not apologize. It’s a jeweler cutting stones, but not diamonds.
Underneath that misspelled tattoo, your smooth, bronze skin, a membrane of beauty.
On the phone, you declared, This is not my life, then hung up.
All those years I was afraid to swim in Quarry Lake, its anonymous bottom, like an unlit room, locked.
The police reported it as an accident. I know you were not afraid. Time running out, the underwater crew recovered you, just before their deadline.
Posit August, 2015