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.”