SUBSEQUENTLY by Chella Courington

You gave me a cactus pear
after our daughter
tumbled
off the boat and you
swam
under spiral blades
to raise her
from the bloody floor
a rose anemone
waiting
for spring
not for you.

Did you jump
for her
or did the white lady
with silver hair
like the moon
reach up
and pull you
overboard
into an ocean
not salty
enough
to bear your gamy
carcass
spitting it back to me
night
after night?

In darkness
I dive
past star feathers
and sea pansies
searching for my child
not for you
until I find her
asleep
in a conch shell
skin
luminously pink
unsuited
for sun.


This poem appears in the recent issue of Karamu, edited by Olga Abella and published by Eastern Illinois University.