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The Awful Rowing toward God
by anne sexton

i'm mooring my rowboat
at the dock of the island called God.
this dock is made in the shape of a fish
and there are many different boats moored
at many different docks. . .

"on with it!" he says and thus
we squat on the rocks by the sea
and play--can it be true--
a game of poker.
he calls me.
i win because i hold a royal straight flush.
he wins because he holds five aces.
a wild card had been announced
but i had not heard it
being in such a state of awe
when he took out the cards and dealt.
as he plunks down his five aces
and i sit grinning at my royal flush,
he starts to laugh,
the laughter rolling like a hoop out of his mouth
and into mine,
and such laughter that he doubles right over me
laughing a rejoice-chorus at our two triumphs.
then i laugh, the fishy dock laughs,
the sea laughs. the island laughs.
the absurd laughs.

dearest dealer,
i with my royal straight flush,
love you so for your wild card,
that untamable, eternal, gut-driven ha ha
and lucky love