Some nights she takes the walkway to Hawaii
wrapped in an army blanket. Waves gray as the sky rage

enormous, pause, then crash
onto the barnacled slats. She shivers

presses woolen handfuls
of Pacific to her mouth to stifle

fits of laughter. Some nights

she pulls ropes of seaweed
from her ears, hand over
hand over hand. Salty droplets

on the carpet
on the cat
all over the chicken marsala, shimmer

like madness. One day

she spies her reflection in the toaster and says, “Woman,
now is the time to start drowning.”