Chincoteague

I look through the bottom of my glass,
through the crescent of water,
at the girls with the legs
of newborn thoroughbreds.
I will never see them naked.
Tan, thinly-muscled stems
trotting them home, wrapping around
the waist of some man.

Tonight will be a night of loss.
You used to ask me if I would ever leave
you, and I would tell you,
no, not until you are done with me.

I hid my hand in your hair,
a mourning dove in its nest,
and thought about being
cut loose -
a balloon, rising until
I became only a pinpoint
of color that made your eyes water
to look for.