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
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.