When the Movieís Main Character
Commits Suicide by Drowning

You will pound your fists.
What you want before he goes:
his voice in your body,
his breath hissing over you.
You will dive in to grab his arms,
his pale torso, his swayback,
all his wanting. His hair.
What has awakened in you
will not quiet: a thrum,
a language you canít follow,
a crescendo, an instrument
with leaky keys.
You will block the mouth
of the water, press your
shaking body into service.
What loosens can be rewoven,
you will want to say,
but you wonít dare speak.
And, Your heart is still beating:
now, now, now.

Dana Guthrie Martin lives and writes in the Seattle area. Her work has appeared in Fence and Canopic Jar.

Boxcar Poetry Review - ISSN 1931-1761