That morning the viscous night
clung like water when
my lips closed too late

while swimming, the sea
spilling in with air, a fear
of the deep twinned with

the fear of breathing...
I laid in bed with
salt crusting my lip.

You walked into Wheelock
black shirt tucked under
a belted waist pouch

holding pills and a phone,
smelling of jojoba
and sandalwood,

'I don't know but it's
Ayurvedic', a man's
oiled hands with the promise

to heal. We talked troubles,
treatments, maladies.
The Miao speaks of a myth

of a sun afraid of
the sky until a rooster
sang him a way

out of the hills. 'Enough
I feel better than
yesterday. Next time how.'

The phone chimed, time for lunch,
meds. The alarm ringtone,
I recognized, is

'Waves', you rose
while I think of where to find
some food from the middle of

water in the middle
of steep hills. I sat
listening for a crow.