Altogether we were
uncountable, and another
of us we abandoned
at the shore. He was
the good one. He was
the one who said this
is the perfect time
to do something
spectacular
and had no desire
to be called forth
at the awards.
We were uncountable,
at least for a while, at least
until we returned
with our eyes.
We were countable, then,
not by numbers,
but in the ways
a wave can shimmer.
We were countable
not by twos, but in
the forms of a writing
hand. We were
never to be
uncounted again,
despite the sweat
on our thumbs.
Despite having
done this
six or twelve times—
come back and back
again to our
body to say
I'm done.
I want more.
The sky
from here resembles
the sky
where he is standing.
He counts
terns in terms
of little lights,
and beyond, the sun sets
like a fever. Down
to the water,
he holds whose hand?
And collects the little things.
Like him, I have
somewhat long fingers
to gather magics,
and I like the feeling
of sand. I want
to say this. I do.
I want to say each of us
becomes what we most
wish for each other.
I want to say all of us
are sturdy
reflections of a life,
though we do not agree
on whether to swim
or if the perfect
time to say I'm here
for you happens only once
we're already gone.
Benjamin Faro (Ben, he/him) is the green-thumbed editor of Equatorial Literary Magazine. His poetry appears in American Literary Review, Cream City Review, Nimrod International Journal, Portland Review, Saranac Review, The Journal, West Trade Review, and elsewhere. He holds an MFA in Creative Writing (Poetry) from Queens University of Charlotte.
Photo credit: Artem Saranin