I think I lived on land once.
Perhaps.
A hinged memory swings within a fingertip’s reach, then
disappears.
Once, my soles slapped on concrete and my toes curled
in grass.
Before I got lost in your waters. Now I do not
know breaths, only gasping.
And I don’t know calm, only flailing.
Stuck in your current, trapped by your tide,
your waves are my enemy companions, and illusory messages
of yearning, of aversion blare in my ears.
Severed oaths ride waves with fingertips of fire. Too
soon, too soon, you spit me out.
Fling me onto the razor sand, where the cold wind erodes
my waterbead blanket.
An outstretched hand
and the sand
may seem well-matched
and yet. . .
my skin only knows drenched, not dry.
Detached requiems perish in the wind, and I
know that my land legs will not return, and the
gray girl who used them has faded to clear.
I lift my head from the blood, slobber. tears, and salty
drool.
Shaky knees try to stand, lungs try not to desire
salt-flavored air. My feet stand on land.
And then it happens, and the licking at my feet is your sea
returned, and it will not take no for an answer.
Foam rises over my ankles, then my shins until I am once again
drowning
in you.
Reason protests in the distance, but I can’t hear it for the waves.
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