—As Good As It Gets

The water is lush & cool. The water consists of fishes with vermillion eyes & scuba divers seeking recompense for stolen treasure. The water will not wait. The water is not accustomed to waiting. The water understands (implicitly) that you are afraid. The water will forgive your tremors, your flails, but is not interested in negotiating your fears. The water speaks (explicitly) in waves. The water dashes many dreams to stone. The water harbors many stones as dreams. The water remains complicit, clouded, circumspect: equal parts wavering & unwavering. The water enjoys an occasional & well-placed play on words. The water will not laugh & cannot stop crying. The water is at once stoic & superfluous where emotions are concerned. The water regards the moon coldly. The water is a breeding ground for science fiction. The water swallows trashy romance novels & family-sized umbrellas. The water contains a silverware drawer replete with spoons. The water is specialized in ontology, epidemiology, & acrobatics. The water also knows something (implicitly) about tautology, effervescence, & ravines. The water taxes for occupancy per diem. The water simulates envelopes & epithets, unfolding & dispensing. The water rarely engages in debates concerning justice, light, the vitality of sand, the accoutrement of shells, or the significance of sailing. The water understands you do not understand. The water will not wait, after all. The water is not accustomed to waiting. The water is weak & warm. The water is controlled by invisible currents that mimic gravity but cannot replicate it. The water is different every time. The water separates (explicitly) porous driftwood from dark ruddy logs. The water composes symphonies, performs operas. The water dictates to an imaginary amanuensis on the shore. The water would like to be kind. The water is not sure how to be kind. The water swallows patchwork blankets & beach towels. The water is stricken with grief but has never learned precisely how to mourn. The water is specialized in sinking. The water remains pent, pickled, prone: equal parts willing & unwilling. The water would like you to enter. The water would like you to feel comfortable, but is not interested in generous gestures of assuaging. The water is shy & struggles with salutations. The water fears itself unremarkable. The water bellows when it means to inquire. The water suggests you have had a hard day & should take off your shoes. The water has already eaten. The water exists in tenuous relation to voyeurism & seduction: those cult-followers in the ringside seats. The water hopes you will not judge the water prematurely. The water hopes you are able to stay awhile. The water would be happy to fix you a drink. The water once wrote a lyric poem called “Capsize,” which was recited near a lighthouse in Bar Harbor. The water remembers when you were a child, remembers it fondly. The water keeps your pink jelly-shoes for posterity. The water is novice & ageless & lost. The water rebukes cliffs & renounces valleys. The water understands the pressure is always changing. The water wishes you would step back a little. The water is concerned with catachresis, though it has never uttered the word. The water is the strong, silent type. The water has a lava lamp in place of a heart. The water regrets it is unable to lunch today. The water desires your presence at a future event. The water blushes & rushes over your toes. Thank you, the water says. Thank you for listening.

          —James Allen Hall

Despite its long affiliation with loss, love also accrues: steady accumulation of boxes no longer reserved for shoes; strange tinctures & hollow rings, powdered with sugar or stronger; Kewpie dolls won in dart games & a dozen Trivial Pursuits, series of subsequent editions. And the luggage & the passports & the key-chain souvenirs, all figurative of course: also fashionable & futuristic & fact. You don’t journey alone anymore. There is someone else to think of, to offer the window seat to—or perhaps she prefers the aisle. A twin bed looks suddenly lonely, & moreso the large bed, bereft of multiple bodies. Your pillow adopts her scent; your blankets no longer yours. The whole world pluraled, this second pulse shadowing your own. Old companions less companionable: radio, television—mere background noise. You begin to hear her voice reciting the grocery list or answering the phone. There is an attention to content but also to form. You form your syllables with her presence in mind, tailored to the shape of her body. You anticipate her wishes, her kisses, the warm place she has been sitting, wrapped in one of her sweaters with burly wood buttons & in-folded sleeves. You wonder if you are becoming transparent, if she can always see through you to the seed of your truest intention. Will she warm her hands on the low fire you always keep burning, clandestine & solely for her? Will you remain astonished by her luminous capacities: for pleasure, for penance & pardon? There is with her & without her but never beyond. She has altered your constitution. You find her in miniature & metonym: pretty crescents of her thumb nails, velveteen lobes of her ears. You can no longer watch Jeopardy! in solitude. Marlboro lights & lucky bamboo trigger visceral reminiscences. And the tatters on your map, torn together: Rapid City, South Dakota, Niagara Falls, Mount Shasta’s elaborate & surreal setting sun. You remember bookcases in Nancy Drew stories, how they almost always hid the mystery stairs. She has passed through those passageways now; she has found your counterfeit copy of Great Expectations & tipped it just so, exposing the secret threshold. And the safe behind the picture with the traveling eyes, & the skeleton key sequestered in the flower pot, & all that spare change lining the sofa cushions. Not piracy or bribery, but a deep & unencumbered knowing. You have climbed into the hold together. You have sifted through the treasure. And each day past, & every day forward, you have crossed your hearts & murmured something about honor. You have ridden bicycles with cross-hatched baskets stuffed full to brimming with roses, all figurative of course: also tender & romantic & accurate beyond accounting. There have been no altars, nor will there be, but extraordinary kindnesses & tokens whose meanings exceed the scope of words. You have handled handkerchiefs & checkbooks & gold pocket-watches, meting out an uncertain number of hours. You have made public parables & private apologies. You have swept chimneys & taken out the ash. You have stood together on the fire escape of a condemned building. You have crossed your hearts & promised not to die.