Once it was out of sight, that sea that can spill
like ink across the map of any country.
We’d heard of it, were told that all roads lead
by long or short ways to its dismal shore.
We had our doubts—it sounded like a myth—

but now there are days when we catch a tang of salt,
glimpse a black glitter from our bedroom window.
So, like a swimmer lowering a toe,
or Mithridates, who died on the Black Sea’s shore,
I take each day, in my mind, a little dose—

inoculation against that bitter water.
As people do. A spoonful of dread gulped down
and then it’s over—time to drive to work,
or read the paper or, sometimes, crack a joke—
prophylaxis to put panic in its place

and keep one’s distance from the thought of death.
It haunted Mithridates, so brave in war,
so terrified at table. It haunts me—
I speak, my husband, of your death, not of mine.
For you, so different from that conquerer,