If, as certain scientists believe, water remembers: what does the first historian dream? ~~~ Star-beneath-the-Sea, silver ring inlaid with amber crucifix, whose hand did you adorn? The hand covered in dark hair hacking through muck, through muckish air. Yes, for the fountain that keeps men fit for pleasure, the pleasure of spices and fabled fruit. That hand writ Florida anew on that day of resurrection: pinks, blues, and blood reds; Tequesta, Timucua, and Tocobaga, living tribes turned palimpsest. ~~~ There’s a secret to water, I thought watching you swim. Tongues dissolve. Nothing settles. Mornings, I lounge on the shore, sipping something strong and secret. One ritual abuts the other. I want so much to cling to this life. I want so much to be released from this scarred narrative. History’s braid: semen, tears, memory, and milk. My breath trembles out—how often I come to the white-petaled water thinking we had touched. • This poem first appeared in Burrow’s anthology WE CAN’T HELP IT IF WE’RE FROM FLORIDA.