I am not an ocean narrative. My feet
are fingernail-soft, long hair
and wide gaze tangledrawn
to shifting tides that rip
and rail against the sand.
Sea-horse, island-bound
my carousel horizon
draws shipwrecks, lung
foam. Desperation echoes,
rebounds my own expulsion.
Sand and salt forced familiar,
my tongue grows stern
on sea-grass. Thickening fog
bars guests who would wring
copper or coal from our bodies.
Weedy morass, short-stumping
this newbred hide grips
all Atlantic spray. Pendent swing
of ice shies fetlocks upon
the slopes. Agency through exile.
We are our own.
Storm plains flex narrow dunes
to claim marrow. Cold bones
sink to sea, where we need
no hand to steer us home.