BECAUSE THE OCEANS CANNOT MIX
I have thrown stones into the river
just to watch them sink without struggle. I have
made a sea of knives around my house. I can see you,
uncolored, spying through the black trees.
You don’t know it, but my arrow is aimed
at your heart. I imagine letting the wind undress it,
coaxing the night between us apart with one bend
of my finger. Because the oceans cannot mix,
I watch you from the sand. Your foam slides
through my fingers: you recoil at my feet.
This is the terrible truth. I only love you
when you are disappearing.
Kathryn Merwin’s poetry has appeared or is forthcoming in journals such as Cutbank, Hayden’s Ferry Review, The Rumpus, Sugar House Review, Prairie Schooner, and Blackbird. She has read or reviewed for the Bellingham Review and The Adroit Journal, and serves as co-editor-in-chief of Milk Journal. She holds an MFA in poetry from Western Washington University and currently lives in the District of Columbia. Connect with her at www.kathrynmerwin.com.