I know many lovely girls who
wait on beaches, I know turtles
birth themselves by their egg’s
nervous stirrings. They rock
their little circles in the sand.
The globe shakes itself too, but
it rests on no sand thus
leaves no mark. I rose up
from the sand, I’ll admit.
My skin a salt lick the sun
won’t even acknowledge.
The waves threaten me daily
with their animal shapes.
I name each billow and roller
And cry at their breakage.
I own no bowls, and no spigot,
but my mouth and my hands.
I swallow the ocean one cup
at a time. These marks me
a prophet- now give me a cave.
I’ll take in some visitors,
The muscled heroic ones
strewn on my shores with
their large ships in pieces.
I’ll fill their palms then their
lungs then I’ll flood them with
promises. Cast them back to the
beaches and tell them to wait.