The Wife of Mission Rock

Nothing curves at sea, and the men there die abruptly, in imitation of the fact, except when the ship rises higher than necessary and then they must drop suddenly but for a long time, so that their deaths appear natural in the end, and the women sweeping the coutyards pause, thinking the dust to be the cause of a specific dryness in the mouth. They leave half of a pastry to harden on a plate. They leave all of the lemons and figs in bowls. They leave fuschia splattered on the stone steps leading down to the bay. They carry their brooms with them, keep sweeping the air, cleaning it back to the sea. They sweep the sand from the shore, feet standing in neat little rows of foam. Each at the edge of something when the foghorns remind them: they will not clearly remember it, they will not altogether forget it. They will wait for something to emerge, like a man at sea carving his children from soap. One woman will start the rumor that the sea is deeper than necessary: Tell her, when has anyone ever come back for one day’s effort on earth?