Bioluminescence

He was pumping air into his wife’s lungs

when I arrived. She lay on a steel bed,

and I, their grandnephew, appealed to a nurse

for some warmth, at least a blanket. In this dim room

metal and glass barely glistened. One midnight,

when I was young, he woke me up to catch crabs.

With ease he dismantled the pyramid of rocks

that sheltered the shelled creatures under their stilt house.

I held the torch as he hauled a bucket filled with knocks

and clatters, and when we reached the sandbar

he said, Take a look, and put out the fire. In the dark

the sea and sky blurred, but beneath our feet

the sand and seaweed shimmered. The stronger

you stirred them, the brighter the bluish lights

they created, the longer they lasted. Now here he was,

my granduncle—as strong as ever, squeezing

the Ambu bag to resuscitate his dying wife.

She would survive, but would be bedridden for life.

On her headboard he would fix a handwritten note:

My dearest wife, I love you. Forever and ever.

But tonight, in this starless room, he stirred on—

to keep the bluish lights glowing for a moment more.