Lest we should see where we are
Lost in a haunted wood,
Children afraid of the night
Who have never been happy or good
W.H. Auden
Homeless in three languages, we are lost,
cast ashore on a shoaled bed. Tie yourself
to my mast. Any day of mine ends well
in you, spent in your arms, no longer tossed
by voyages. Turning in the night breeze,
your brine-slick belly towers like a sail,
your hips lift on a wave as the salt swell
mounts beneath you, within your hold, your knees
gripping me, flooding you, bringing you home.
You kiss in French, mumble je suis arrivée.
At last we have arrived, have come to play:
the only country we shall call our own.
Abandoned children, becoming lovers,
let slip the world, and anchor in each other.