Burial at Sea

At the bridge railing
with wind-whipped hair,
her hands going numb
around the steel bar,
restless water below,
she knows she will not jump
not now,
not ever.

Still, the water is rushing up
toward her every minute,
one day it will swallow
all the pieces of her
that she thinks of as herself.

Even if she believed in heaven
she knows the transformation
it takes to get there
would render her unknowable:
the shapeless soul elusive,
scattered, subject to
the vagaries of the wind.

Better to be mired in sandy
bottom, embraced by salt
and seaweed, offering pieces
of willing flesh
to all the nibbling fish.