A veil of ashes
obstructed my view,
yet I could hear
the tide’s swell crashing,
mixing what was left
of me into you.
Knee deep,
I fought the cold Atlantic.
With six eyes watching,
I opened the chest,
the sea-foam washing
your ashes
onto my legs.
I was so cold and haunted.
A momentary horror,
certainly,
but I’m settling.
I realized it was fitting,
and hung your
veil of ashes
over widower’s eyes,
but I think the stain
of ashes will
outlive the memory
of that night.
For years, eyes blackened.
The cold Atlantic,
so deep and thrashing,
holds the spirit
of one long gone.
My blue-eyed bride,
behind her veil of ashes,
is one with the sea,
and one with tide,
as if the sea
is the only home
she’d ever known.
©️ 2018-2019.
