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?