This Water Knows

Photo by Alex Suprun on Unsplash

Below this whale song of waves: the fin-happy,
sounding through all the dumb canyons
of the sea, coloured crayon-bright in the dark
flooded basement of the earth, shadow-drifted
across aqueous meadows prismed with light,
blending with gray rock and white sand,
knobby coral and long swishy green,
ferned and prickled, smoothed and elongated,
troubled hard, dense, small

but here, and free—
the mute-mouthed, mandibled hungry
and the hunted—to a grotto-chased,
honorable death. Or those given eyes
to see the dangling hook, the silver
door swinging shut before it’s too late.
Those at least, weapons in the hand.
Not a cavernous ground zero.
Not here.

But this water knows, in its reach, how
my bikini got its name. Makes me think
of dreams I barely had, so quickly did they
sink from sight, but whose notes floated
long after, as if there was something
I could yet retrieve. In a tidal lullabye
of voices I cannot hear, the many mouths
of the sea open and close, open and close
lips I cannot read.

Another poem from my chapbook “Irresistible”, forthcoming from Finishing Line Press in March. Like to read more? Pre-orders (upon which the print run is based) end soon – January 12th!  May this new year be as exciting for you as it is for me!

12 thoughts on “This Water Knows

    1. Sarah, my tech-savvy son has just informed me I don’t always reply directly to the person I’m wanting to and so they might not know I’ve responded. In case that’s so here, please scroll down to read my reply to you January 7th. Thanks!

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  1. Living in Scotland I only see the surface presentation of the sea, or glimpses a few dozen feet down at the dancing fronds of kelp and bladderwrack, the head of a seal poking out through the mirror. The poem evokes in me longing for the mystical oceanic depths from my previous life-time (pre-children) when I was scuba diving, hiking, sailing and meditating four hours a day and thought that the wonders of nature and the exploration of the interiors of my consciousness were the keys to my growth. How right and wrong I was. Now with trepidation I push against my edge into the realm of the relational, wrestling with my fears, insecurities, needs, desires and oldest wounds, all of an interpersonal nature. How right and wrong I was. The longing persists.

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    1. Thank you so much for your heartfelt reply, Owen! I am moved that this poem reminded you of a previous self and life, and stirred such longing. And how poetic your expression of that! I think longing, in and of itself, is one of the soul’s mysterious balms for the body, this physical jacket it wears.

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