Ingrid Bergman at Sea
As a girl, I dreamed in black & white
about the water between islands,
water without current,
that held me up as it must have held Jesus.
I didn’t walk, but lay, gliding my arms and legs
over the surface, making water angels.
the first time to my child,
which cost me the love of my fans.
I did not regret the trade, but
the second time, I lost my body
to itself, the cells multiplying,
still giving birth to myself,
my body born twenty-four times per second.
I saw myself from below the water,
floating, the huge wings of the waves I birthed
breaking against the islands and falling back.
before turning inland. And I regret them all,
every cycle,
every reproduction of my body that flickers
without me. Every frozen frame that won’t thaw.
I cannot have them back;
they don’t disappear.
