Hour Two: The Drowning

I have always imagined it to be
like walking on water, all the way
to Spain. Or Nova Scotia.
I’ve never been to Halifax.
There might be shipwrecks there
from that exploded boat
and I’ll be the one to find
the missing brooch,
a letter written in washable blue,
my favorite ink, when dry.
When wet it cannot be relied upon
to deliver the message as to why I went,
like Spaulding Gray, into the drink.
What is left to say?
No stones in my pockets, I rely on
the force of history to pull me down.
As to the reason, be it self-inflicted
or that killer who stalks for years
and finally strikes, holding me under
until I gurgle, like a full water bucket –
it doesn’t matter. Nothing matters
except these fish around me, friendly.
See how they flash in the water:
one last rainbow, rainbow, rainbow.

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