Feared Drowned
by Sharon Olds

Suddenly nobody knows where you are, 
your suit black as seaweed, your bearded
head slick as a seal's.
 
Somebody watches the kids. I walk down
the edge of the water, clutching the towel
like a widow's shawl around me.

None of the swimmers is just right.
Too short, too heavy, clean-shaven,
they rise out of the surf, the water
rushing down their shoulders.

Rocks stick out near the shore like heads.
Kelp snakes in like a shed black suit 
and I cannot find you.

My stomach begins to contract as if to
vomit salt water
when up the sand toward me comes
a man who looks very much like you,
his beard matted like beach grass, his suit
dark as a wet shell against his body.

 
Coming closer, he turns out
to be you--or nearly.
Once you lose someone it is never exactly
the same person who comes back.

 

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