If we make it to shore, he says, I will name our son after this water. I let him cup a handful of the sea into my hair and wring it out. He crouches beside me, his breath a misplaced weather. Little centuries opening just long enough for us to slip through. He said There is so much I need to tell you. He said the shadow of missiles growing larger on the sidewalk looked like god playing an air piano above us. A carousel spinning its blackened horses. The sky was September-blue and the pigeons went on pecking at bits of bread scattered from the bombed bakery. White hyacinths gasped in the embassy lawn.
Otherwise it was a perfect spring morning. *When we left it, the city was still smoldering. We had been sailing-but the edge of the world was nowhere in sight. He lay beside me and placed a word on the nape of my neck, where it melted into a bead of whiskey. While I slept, he burned his last violin to keep my feet warm. That a woman on a sinking ship becomes a life raft-no matter how soft her skin. If you must know anything, know that the hardest task is to live only once. *Then, as if breathing, the sea swelled beneath us.
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