|
|
Eels ribbon the water, in and out
of tidal crevices. The air hangs still
like the day the Lusitania sank
off the coast of Ireland
in 18 minutes flat. All the hands of the drowning
reached up towards the blue, blue
sky almost whimsical, serene
in the artists’ pictures. Offshore, a seal circles
like a selkie in search of
a man
a mate
a master. I’m somewhere in that liminal
space. I’m craving
a man to buoy me up
drag me under
walk away with my skin
draped over his arm. Mom’s walking the shoreline in search
of sea glass, a tiny
figure against the glare. She dips her feet
in tidal pools, shields
her eyes to stare
out at lighthouses, sandstone bluffs, sailboats
skimming the strait. We all know
life is a vanishing act. I want to go to her
but my mind, that fickle eel
is off with previous lovers, swimming,
submerged, or caught
in the wake. |
|