We’re having lunch at the harbor,
salads and tea, and Bob starts talking
about losing himself in certain pieces
of music. Not losing track of time. Or
forgetting to meet me in half an hour.
More that who he is pools, for the mo-
ment, in a larger sea. He says it’s scary,
’cause he’s not sure he will come back
as himself. But being drawn out this
way makes him feel alive. Now Susan
talks about the small woodpecker who
flew into our window during the week.
How she found it in the flowers, fright-
ened but alert. How she tried to help it.
How she pinched its little legs and no-
thing. It had broken its toothpick of a
back. She put it in a towel, in a shoebox.
When I came home, I saw her holding
the little thing, its soft eyes flitting. It
was drinking drops of water from her
finger. I will never forget that drinking.
The next day the little one died. Susan
is still sad. Says she won’t be the same.
We peck at our salads and drink our tea.
The light spills between us. The three of
us drinking from each other’s fingers.
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