Miles and Years Under

I left a shoe-box snorkeling
beneath the brackish sea waves without
as much as a mewl. The high-tide
will feed on Mumma's Tiffany
bow, the one she wore on her
honeymoon to the cottage by the Irish
moor. The pavonine conch will find her
home again, and perhaps choke an elegy to
the breaths they drowned in her nub. Mr. Bubbard
and Timothy will bog down on the shells,
glass-eyed and terrified, as seaweed will ballet with eight tentacles and a starfish that are bound to
swallow the black that bleeds of my
bygone days. Kisses, I reckon, shall disintegrate and
marry the sands of sea and my life
will sojourn amidst coral reefs.
Without me.