The thing about drowning, it would be peaceful,

                  though I’d mess it up with panic, the will to see

                  one more monarch feeding on a milkweed pod.

                  Even if balmy, as awful as throwing oneself

                  from a moving van, a condo window.

                  Tidal beds are definitely not for lovers —

                  too much dousing, too much desiccation.

                  Much better to be a barnacle in the brine,

                  a harbor seal holding your shoes, the divine

                  a dozen blue dashers circling your head.

                  Whether standing on the steps

                  of the Heart Prairie Lutheran Church

                  or the banks of Pleasant Lake,

                  whether one’s ticker does or doesn’t

                  murmur beside a moraine, Death

                  drives up in his Mini Cooper, sure

                  as you’ll find the silver-bordered fritillary

                  all across the transboreal north, nectaring

                  on swamp verbena and rabbit brush.
                
                

                  Martha Silano is our Poet in Residence for March. 

Previously: Angel of the Wind