Isla Mujeres

The shoal we saw from the boat was fish;

it parted as I dove through, and formed

again overhead, each fish

like a dancing molecule in a rock.

On the flight to Merida we came down

through clouds that looked like brains

or scrambled eggs, but they were only

wisps and down we came. I'd swim

back up a chimney of fish and break,

already squinting, back into bright air.

If love is curiosity, I loved those fish.

Those nights I ate her, she didn't come

so much as she would go.

Her cunt-lather tasted already of memory

and fever-sped loss, as if I would dream

again and again -- and I do --

of falling through her. Sometimes I dream

I'm her, she's me, I'm on my back, she's eating

and falling through me, and as I start

to concentrate and come, my mind

"wanders," as a teacher would say to chide

one of our children, half of whose classmates

come from "broken" homes, should one

of our children stare too long

out a window, imagining he could fly.