If the Atlantic Ocean has seen my
breasts, held them for an evening in the dark,
full night, did he tell anyone? If sky
observed, unfurled her firmaments? If the arc
of my neck meant anything [to him], cradled in cold
strokes of strong current [and I’m not saying
it has; just, like, what if] has ocean been bold
over drinks with other oceans, surveying
their coasts for where my limbs [might have] touched wave?
Or from across the table with brine lips,
does ocean ask of ocean in the way
that I interrogate men—drunk, cautious—
if those who came before were more lovely,
if each ocean they loved became holy?