An Unbinding

When you find yourself peering through the glass

at a colony of bobbing seahorses,

stop.

marvel at the mythical, royal gaze from each venerable face

the tiny bones stacked behind plates and skin

as thin as bat wings

the prehistoric tails that coil stiffly around the tank’s plastic sea grass

or around each other

 in lovely symmetry

Like the way we ground ourselves through unconscious gestures

weave all of our fingers into a single fist

as we window shop after a satisfying meal

or absentmindedly slide our hand across a lower back

at a party on the way to the bathroom

as if to say, I’m still here.

A child’s legs bound securely around the waist

of the person he most trusts to do the carrying.

One sleeping body tucked in the curved spaces of another

the breath of trust and ownership, moist on the neck.

Even our jackets hanging heavy on the back of our chair

to say, this is mine.

In storms

they are thrown by the roiled sea

from the thing they were clinging to

and die from the exertion,

tossed like white clattering shells onto the shore

I drank a black pint of porter

slowly and alone last night

in a town that doesn’t know me

and I didn’t know what time it was

but I suspect the kids were just then being folded

under their heavy quilts

gripped in the curl of their father’s thick fingers

There are no storms in the aquarium,

so just watch.

There is always one reckless explorer

whose small fin flutters wildly

as she frees herself from her anchors

and takes a ride in the aquarium’s artificial current