Shades Of Blue

Sorting through mementos, greeting cards,
playbills I find a photo. A knot twists
my stomach. I exhale, focus
on the man with ankles crossed,
stretched out in a rope hammock strung
between the hulls of a trimaran. Your smile
reels me back to Isla Mujeres in a flash.
You wear royal blue trunks, white shirt,
a hat I bought you in Cancun.
Beneath you, mystical lucid waters
kaleidoscope from blue to green
and back again. You have a Coronita
in your right hand, left arm propped
behind your head. I took this picture
just before the captain cut the engines
and the trimaran settled. A suspended
moment of silence as the sea turtles swam
close, performed a water ballet as if choreographed.
You said we’d talk about them for decades.
Strange, we never had that conversation.
The next year you died. I put the photo back,
hope to stumble on it again.