The ocean never was my friend.
The suck around my feet was clear,
even to me, that peeling boy:
less than the titan’s rubber toy,
I always knew enough to fear
a force I couldn’t comprehend.
It fed us well, that much I knew,
thrilled us as we dragged taut
lines across its lacy crests
for fish mother cooked and blessed.
I never counted what we caught:
the bill was always overdue.
Later, bellied down in swells,
a soggy match, tossed, belayed,
I knew a greater will was set
on closing out my aging debt;
we haggled through an endless day,
her clauses drumming in my cells.
Now my feet are warm and dry
but the old accounts are status quo:
the black Atlantic lies between
this surf and one I’ve never seen,
and by its phosphorescent glow
I reckon what I’ll owe the sky
if all I am, all I know
can fall away, let me fly.
1 comment:
her salty lick connects the two of us (my love and i) lapping at our sand covered feet. but she's a bridge of unfathomable deep, laughing beneath the thundering beat of her waves: for she knows she is able to keep us apart by her watery arms length.
so i, too, dream of 'cloths of heaven.'
i will profusely thank minx for sending me here.
my best. red.
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