They say she’s in the wind,
in a sky-home made of clouds,
dancing on sunbeams and moonrays;
but our bodies are flesh and scales
and saltwater sorrow, bitter tears,
and her body is seafoam
mixed with stray hairs, shorn
locks trembling in the water,
seafoam in our mouths, swallowing
our sister, the only way to hold her
through our failing fingers, the dagger
she refused passing from one
hand to another to another,
none of us knowing where
to place it
until one of us throws it upward,
slicing the waves—
clean blade plunging into the sand,
it pierces
the footprints of newlyweds
admiring the sea.