I met this girl
in the health food shop
and she told me -
pinning me like a poster
against the wall
on the point of her
paleblue gaze -
that water remembers
everything.
My mind drifted from
her monotone advocacy
of the homeopathic life, and
I didn't notice her go,
as I found myself wondering
about the Tasman:
specifically, that part of it
that strokes the beach
At Golden Bay.
I wondered if it remembered
us
and that dip
that should have been
moonlit, except
the clouds hid the moon
and gave us, instead,
fat drops, that we
turned our faces up
to and drank,
standing neck deep,
chest to chest,
arms tightly belted
round each other's waists.
I wondered if it remembered
the shallowness of breath
the unfinished ...
... sentences ...
I wondered if
it remembered
how it couldn't chill us
because your kisses were
more fury than tenderness:
hot as jalapeños
in my mouth.
I wondered if it remembered
our promises
and how much we meant them
then.
I wondered, if its memories
were fresh still,
unspoiled.
I wondered.
If I bathed there,
would it
give them back?