asleep among endives

after Ichiko Aoba

your body: steeping in a teapot/ of freshwater/a blanket weaved from lichen/

submerging your skin. here, you are a supine herring/

briefly choking on coiffures of algae

and raindrops from above.

the sailboats have left for the day/ and we are stranded like two

wrinkled mammals on the cliff of the sea. i watch a windchime of seahorses/

shaped like treble clefs/ lazily blink in musical notation/ glissando/ near the seafoam/

i stand to wonder why we couldn’t stay/ the compass of our inner ears pointed towards/

the hum of gulfweed/ why we couldn’t stay/ cradled by the bassinet of the water/

sinking our gills into hibernation. you and i as fish – it’s not impossible/

maybe in another life/ the God above me is a hungry fisherman/ and you know

not to take his bait. maybe in another life/ the scales

aren’t just musical/ but they pattern our bodies

like drenched, rippling crochet.

maybe we won’t sink this time.