I sang to you, light in my arms
and your cheek wet, and the shore
the sky brightening, our passage
abandoned as the last star
the hours swelling in the thick
June heat as I crossed the wide
settled you, as if you knew
even then the journey we were on,
would be forever heading into
open water, past gray shallows
at the high-water line, turning
from boat to felled kite:
fly, but which withered instead
like the willow judged by
Inland. Four, five, six summers
pass. Too heavy now to carry
somnambulist, around the room.
I sit up late. Asleep, you
in the watercourse we made, I stand
on grief's upper deck and hear
shade, "Whose boat is it anyway?"
"It is yours," I think, but
The magnum of Veuve Clicquot
Excerpted from The Watercourse by Cynthia Zarin. Copyright © 2002 by Cynthia Zarin. Excerpted by permission of Knopf, a division of Random House. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.