One Last Swim in the Adriatic

A small island,

like the top of a giant’s bald head, 

breaks the ocean’s serene expanse.

It could be the cove where

Calypso captured her lover,

but no one really knows.

The late afternoon sun has started her descent

behind a verdant crescent cradle

holding us. 

Our heads too—

crowning.

We are more than halfway through 

our lives—if we are lucky—

and we are,

hvala vam, 

to be here on this curve of day.

The motion of water lapping outward

reminding us that nothing stays.

Not this more than perfect moment

slipping away 

in waves.

We are leaving slowly, says the captain,

and we are.

Saltwater drips off our bodies like Calypso’s tears

returning back to the ocean’s womb

where we were held like infants, 

as though experiencing the world for the first time.

Or like the Cyclops with his injured eye,

we gaze, half blind:

We know we are part of something 

we can barely comprehend.

Our eyes framed by lines like the sun’s rays

that all day 

warmed the top layer

of the ocean’s quiet cold.

The opposite of rage ripples through us.

Our sun tinged skin soothed

when we soak in soft pinks and deep blues.