We walked for miles on the sand’s firm ribs, afterthoughts

of high tide strung among them: sea glass, ghost shrimp,

lion’s mane jellyfish. Finally married: my mother’s relief

& the rings to prove it, carved with waves

from some ancient obelisk. This after the six months

my neurons sat sparking on their ends    cut cables in a dark tunnel –

I shrugged myself on again,     nerves cool & wet

under my lace dress. Mornings

I took the train across the Mersey to wander

the bombed-out churches smoldering purple

with loosestrife & storm, the cathedral aglow

with pink script: I felt you and I knew you loved me.[1] I scrawled

postcards home like some girl on the edge

of empire as I waited for him to return,

my arms full of takeout cartons blistered with rain,

a few perfect apples; those afternoons I believed

the rest of our lives could be this damp, green & free, before

my wires began arcing live again

beneath my nightgown sleeves –

.

[1] from Tracey Emin’s “For You,” exhibited at Liverpool Cathedral