I’m writing to remind you of your promise —
my need to squander his soul has grown from embers
to a wildfire. Soon we must meet by the river.

I’ll stand under the highest arch of the bridge,
the moon’s light on my white scarf.
You’ll find me easily.
Don’t forget, bring your pouch with your blue

And lavender glass marbles. I practice the chant
you taught me. I say it nightly and when driving,
stopped by a red light or a slow-walking pedestrian.

I’m unmusical, as you know, but the rhythms
of my thoughts, a metronome behind my ribs,
my laugh has resonance, my skin glows.

Friends ask, what brought the change. I tell them
Om, Om, Moon-Shanti, and the marbles that I rub—
they just look at me.

I need you as my witness.
As you said, I took that photo,
him shortly before he sired me,
I shredded it with my teeth, spat on it

Till his image blurred ashen-gray.
When I fling him in the opaque sea
he’ll be more anonymous than a leaf in the wind.

You promised that then my voice will trail the waves,
soar like a dolphin.
As instructed: a prayer, and with seven drops
of water I’ll spill my decades back into the brine.

I’ll wait till an osprey dives for a fish.
Then I’ll scream to inhale the air before I was born.
My vibrato rising into foaming laughter,

I’ll flap my arms and finally
lullaby that child who slept
on a mattress of tufted fear.