The widower in silk pajamas slides his hand along a glossy blue sleeve, thinking, Water to fabric, rivulet slipped through a needle’s eye. He’s all ripples when he moves, all waves breaking against flesh. He read in the paper the human body is 80 percent water. He is almost a brook when he wanders around the yard, practically a river flowing upstream when climbing stairs, the distant past of Pacific salmon leaping over his shoulders. He naps for hours on a king-size, the mattress dimpled where two bodies slept together for decades. Dreaming, he is the relative of that lake where he tipped the urn overboard. What was left of her the water dissolved, becoming the water and the lulling blue sounds it made while he paddled back to land.
Copyright © 2017 David Hernandez. Used with permission of the author. This poem originally appeared in The Southern Review, Summer 2017.
David Hernandez is the author of Dear, Sincerely (University of Pittsburgh Press, 2016); Hookwinked (Sarabande Books, 2011); Always Danger (Southern Illinois University Press, 2006); and A House Waiting for Music (Tupelo Press, 2003).
Date Published: 2017-10-17
Source URL: https://poets.org/poem/ss-nevertheless