Tumbling waves curl as high as her window, splashing like an
overfull wine glass.
Hour hands prick her elbows as she leans and watches from
the inside,
How many times has she just stared at the moving reflection?
Beauty stares back at her but she doesn’t see it.
A tension grasps her throat and makes her choke
a salty scratching clawing through her head.
She can create waves with a stroke of her wrist. Why.
She washes down the outside, moon, sun, and stars rolling
through like a Ferris wheel.
She hates rides.
Hate’s the wait.
She’ll glance at the green gems floating in the ocean below
her.
Wailing cauldron of guile replaying “thens”
and smiles and comforts and musings and him. (sad)
Congo drums double beats sweating silently scared.
Only the sky sees her cry.
A sail with no wind. She wants
home.
(love)
Her tears fill the mounting waters biting her ankles.
Airplanes cross, other couples float on their skiffs, and
islands waning over the horizon seem too far to swim.
She doesn’t know how deep this ocean goes.
Fingering the cold spot in her bed. Letting the headlights wipe the ceiling.
The motors humming all night have become her only friends.
A stone conscious stolid as a statue by a master,
she’ll store her pain to rebuild her mast, hoping to fill
him again someday.
