Miranda, 1916, J.W. Waterhouse

Moving into Her House

by Amoret BriarRose

I remember the hard line of your brow,
a storm that would never break,
the unwavering correctness, how you never
flinched as you pulled back saying
enough, that’s enough, I don’t want anymore.

The lines of your hip were islands breaching the night water
pushing up through sheets pooled and dark
like blood. I’d lie on my back
staring, sailing, haunted by her cold ghost blue and bruised
in a shared bed, close enough to touch
cautioning silence, shhh, he’s sleeping. Reflect.

The harbor was not forever.
My reflection, settled as silt,
reformed as ripples receded to stillness,
my hip bones flat, wide skipping stones
made to sink where they’d been thrown.

But from the shoreline, I saw the storm coming.