In a poem,
I saw them both
floating in the shell of a
brass green bowl, bobbing still
with salt and fish, my mother’s paw
on the honey and gold.
My father cooed,
soft as cotton at the billowing sail.
My mother’s fur - had glistened.
In an email, they wrote to me,
my fathers feet clicking keys
about a trip in a see through ship-
small fins, coral bricks
shape of icebergs.
My father said
he dived for me.
Somewhere in a poem
he sang the words to make me see
closed wings, breaking sea
sharp beak cleaving streams.
In the poem they sailed
for a year and a day.
In the email
they’d be home for spring.
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