WATERMARK

Billy commented on this poem at Oratory, reminding me of one lost in the archives: 

When you were parched
      with the needs of others
           and I washed up thirsting
                on your rocky beach, you

let me in.  When I raged
      against all fathers, all lovers,
           all men who cast away their
                women, you stayed, still and

deep as a mirror.  When
      you went down as far as
           you could dive, beyond
                love, beyond breathing,

submerged in death and bloated
      with all the drowning violence
           of your own raging father, then
                surfaced shouting at my door,

I let you in.  When I came
      to you weeping, choking on
           demands and accusations,
                hearing only my own gasping
       
fear, you let me in.  When
      you came to me, sodden,
           from another bar or another
                woman, mouth full of seaweed

and booze, I let you in.  
      If there are women who
           ask how you can hold
                to someone so breathless,

so far from shore — if there
      are men who wonder how
           I can swim in such cold, deep
                water — well, I say — let them.