For James Dickey, in Spite of Himself
Cooper Esteban

One night after
another, swimming into that
helmet of water my
swimming creates,

I am the skull-
piece that vanishes at every
pause. The salt eyes open.
He is the seed

the fishes' jaws
gape for, bioluminescent
warmth in the Mexican
tide. I came here,

daughter, to seine
for him, three fingers in the sand-
box underneath her tongue.

1996 © 2003