Running like a Woman with Her Hair on Fire

A Chill Over the Water

34 A ChiLL oveR the WAteR The ocean is ruled by the moon. Not language, not telescopes, the cool moon. I carry that with me, say it like an olivewood rosary over and over, while the watery light gives my words away. When will we dance last? Where is there a bed for us? These are the songs of ice-bound boats; they need my protection. I hold them in my hands—children: abandoned and dancing. I have bought stationery to write to you. It is off-white and sturdy. “All is well,” I will write. “The weather is cool and damp. David is well.The children are well. The dog is too fat, the cat getting old.” I can write such words and know that something in you will stir; something in you will look up and itch and move. Your blue owl-y eyes will open wide and your fine fingered hands will close tight on themselves. “Damn,” you’ll say. You will look up at the moon. “Damn!” and you might pace, playing with your cigarette, blowing the smoke through your nose. Do you remember our waltz? A woman’s waltz in a woman’s kitchen— 35 the wine red and staining our tongues and laughter washing the garlic off my hands? We sing the songs of ice-bound boats, Friend. Small wonder that we seem not to find the secrets. They’re all from a warmer climate than we know. We hop up and down, waving our shirts as flags, watching the tankers float by without so much as a blowing of their great horns. Sometimes we shout “Help!” Sometimes, “Keep going!” There’s not so much as a lone seaman on their decks to shout back or blow kisses, or point meaningfully to the ocean, then to the moon. Still we shout, waving our shirts as flags, staving off starvation with our talk. ...