on certain nights
when there was no hope
& all the radio stations played
Bela Lugosi’s Dead
on repeat
stretched out the chained drums
before the bats
I was fortunate enough to witness her
drowning;
moonlight overwhelming as blues & shadows
rose across her skin or she descends
into it all willingly; plunging
like a cormorant in pursuit of her consumption until
I couldn’t tell
where the wet feathers ended
and her flesh began

she drowned so often in my arms
& the passenger seat of my car
& there were dreams of ancient
islands in her coughing; until she retched
and spat entire histories upon me

I learned all my mythologies from watching her
all the stories I would use
to convince her I was in her heart
while she considered life & death
& how much of the night
she could take into herself 
before she was overwhelmed
& released into bubbles
to break the still water
& disguise the murderous self-empire
beneath the surface

now some nights, I sit
by the water’s edge
and wait for the great bird
to erupt again,
joyous & triumphant
with a salmon-trout or some
other thing
caught in her lips