Clear to the Horizon

When you turned thirty-five we climbed to the top

of that lighthouse in Nag’s Head as twilight draped

itself across the ocean and I pointed out white caps

waving their foamy fists at you.  You leaned

forward, laughing, and

 I pushed, gently.

Your I-don’t-get-the-joke look, and then

you were shrinking like an amazing

movie effect that kept every sundress ripple

vivid even as you zoomed tiny tinier gone.

No meeting of body and toothy shoreline –

you just disappeared.  As surely as did your

warm outline in bed, your dueling

hints of plumeria and hazelnut, the rather

modest insurance claim, and finally, reluctantly,

my own thick brew of thrill and guilt.  There was 

nothing

but the piercing beam that

passed behind me that night, threw my shadow

against cold space, slowly turning translucent

blade, cutting all, clear to the horizon.

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