The Drifting

Marvin Bell

Who called a crisis a spade?
-which unearths to the root canals
down which one man you took for god
paddled his own canoe. Not you.
You were assaulted from above:
that God, making up for good times.

So I loved you from underneath;
you wouldn't look down
when you floated to shores
of no light you washed up upon,
looking for my shoulder, rib, one
hand, joints rolling caresses.

I was drowning, using the dead
man's float like a call for help
down that stream of gold that wound
round you: half a jacket for me
but a ring for you. Everyman a Houdini
who escapes that water with his wife.