SOMETIMES I THINK MY BODY LEAVES A SHAPE IN THE AIR

I slipped my hands in the cold salt froth

of the Pacific Ocean just two days ago. Planetlike

and everything aquatic, even the sky, where an eagle

unfolded so much larger than my shadow.

I was struck translucent. A good look for me!

My hands were slick with the water I was born next to,

and there was a whole hour that I felt lived in, like a room.

I wish to be untethered and tethered all at once, my skin

singes the sheets and there’s a tremor in the marrow.

On the way back to the city, a sign read:

“Boneless, Heartless, Binge-Worthy.”

Next to it was a fuzzy photograph of a jellyfish.

Imagine the body free of its anchors,

the free-swimming,

a locomotion propelling us, pulse by pulse,

but here I am: the slow caboose of clumsy effort.

When the magician’s wife died, how could they be sure

he hadn’t just turned her into ether, released her

like a white bird begging for the sky outside the cage?

Creeley says, The plan is the body. What if he’s wrong?

I am always in too many worlds, sand sifting through my hands,

another me speeding through the air, another me waving

from a train window watching you

waving from a train window watching me.