It’s nighttime: she’s treading water, flailing
under the largest delta of distant singing stars
She wants no light to guide her home—
a woman can want to swim alone.

The cherubim come calling her name then
Condescending. Carrying blinding stars. 
Four faces, teeth gnashing—
four wings with smoldering feathers
flap violently: awakening tempests,
and they cry, “It’s the tides, then!”
that threaten to bury her.
They pretend to extend their arms.
They pretend to part the sea. 

Sirens bellow from the black below, 
“There’s Nowhere left for you to go.” 
And with webbed fingers 
they grab her feet. Tempting
visions of Mother Leviathan
who will hold her close
and wipe her tears until
her bones are brittle and dry.

So she lets her eyelids flutter: then
they close, like Man—somber, slow
She detaches from her body
No longer treading water
No need for a hand to hold
or a place to call home
She floats soft from the voices
both above and below