by Abner Dormiendo

And now the woman, with the patience
of rocks, monumental, watches her heart
slowly, absolutely, crumble to sand

on the shorelines of time. It has been three days,
and the tide has yet a body
to return, fragments of wood, familiar

as flesh, familiar as prior loves
coming back on colder nights,
not as firewood collapsing beneath

the weight of remembering, no,
but as palms of heat stroking the woman’s
body; not anymore returning

as the body she has known—that body
is no more—but, as the woman sits
on the shore: the waves coming back

with its ocean of hands, the gentle form
of lips blowing to her wrinkled cheek,
coming home to the salt of a tear.