to chopin

you stepped in to the blue surface
and sank, sank, sank
to the tiny rocks
beneath -

some would call it your death.
we could hear you
calling out from
the waves;

you were a bird, you said,
a bird that could swim -
an anhinga,
free -

and free was something
you had never felt
before, save that
time

we rode in the back of
your brother's truck,
backs pressed
against

cold metal, and eyes pressed hard
against mighty hercules
and his twelve
labors:

you were always my labor,
of dual mind and
chambered
heart,

presenting me with a fight:
whether or not to
be the sand,
frail

and indistinguishable,
or to be the ocean,
moving with every
placid thought.