Sandcastle World

The swallow knows not of death,

only its approach—its scent,

its looming handshake.

Clever, it heeds the signs,

takes off in a hurry

toward a destination

of no importance.

It knows: as long as it flies

quickly

toward elsewhere,

all will be well.

The salmon, blind to signs,

misses the holding hands

before claws unsheathe.

It overlooks your wings

unfurling,

the job offer

in another city.

Deaf to our fights,

it doesn’t hear my words

that made you ebb—

before the wave

that crashed

and erased you.

But in this world

where all that is

was made to wash away

from all that is me, when

the swallow escapes,

soaring above—

the salmon resists,

swimming alongside.