Becoming at sea
All the things I almost say are lost along
the developing waterline.
I am at the threshold of the past tense
where I collect heirlooms of the sea
and think about the shoulder I love, its every mark.
I could swim for hours here
then resurface like a tidal island. Ebb or flow,
come or go, solitude or loneliness.
Next to the water is where I’d like to become.
I lay in the coastal sands
positioned like a looking glass. Nothing but the crest
to suggest a history of migration.
In this moment I think I can become a window
framing the past. I attempt this because I am made
out of women and witness. Oh—
look! The wave is almost here at my ankles.
The present is as ambivalent as ever.