I
in my language moartea e marea death is the sea
and the sea is mare, vastness that will swallow us all
in my language moartea e mareea death is the tide
a shifting of matter that must always return
in my language Maria, marea mea she, named like the sea
is returned to the vastness, and becomes the sea
in my language Maria a murit and there is no sadness
in seafoam arms, today she holds me as ever
II
only in English do I crumble,
cut myself on shards of words:
Maria has died in
a hospital bed
far from the sea
far from home
far from
me
III
in no language are there any words
for the the low-growling blackness, the opening of jaws
between waves—niciun cuvânt destul de întunecos
and when the sea swallows your past and your future,
you would say anything but the right word:
passed, departed, stins, adormit
a kindness, how the sea fog of language
fills that terrible hollow, so that you believe
she lingers on, nu încă amintire
but in drifting between languages, it finds you
suddenly, the sharp truth—the wave crest
at the intersection of: death, moarte.
IV
there is a sea beyond all words: golden with sun and memory
and us swimming and the future—the future, as far as we can see.
Diana Dima is a writer and neuroscientist living in Canada. Her work has appeared in Strange Horizons, khōréō magazine, and elsewhere. You can find her online at www.dianadima.com or as @dimafic on Bluesky.
