Ambrose Nast

There are ugly nights when I curse him aloud and wish he had lived to suffer hearing that sailor's terrible story.

Yet there are just as many nights when I am glad he was spared it.

Where are you now, Florence?

In the seas black underneath, dressed in rotting chains, scorned by your husband.

How long will I stay fearful you might walk out of the surf some gusty evening, remembering those who failed you, not just on that one night,

but in all the years before when we condemned you to rove your wondrous interior landscapes all alone.