She Always Loved the Sun and Sea
My sister floats on warm waves in Hawaiian seas, lingering
in the gently lapping water, all night haunts whited out
by the tropical sun, no fears of hurt by alien beings
calling to her through the radio, no voices that only shout.
My sister is swimming in the Pacific, she now is calm
too, all anger and demons settled down, sedated
for the first time in a very long time, this water, a balm
that washes over her, through her — she is sated.
My sister is disappearing from the shoreline, a bright
buoy so far out to sea that its sight fades to memory,
a question mark, was she really there, a slight
body rising and falling between white froth and sky?
The ocean has taken her ashes, what tooth and bone
remain, mingle with sand, shell, coral: her new home.