Wednesday, January 30, 2013
The ocean is like an onion peeled back.
She stands on the widow's walk
Counting the minutes before dawn
Stretching her vision to the far end
Of the horizon, where
The bloodied razor's edge of sun
Cuts the night open.
Each wave makes her cry,
Like the sting of the onion's tang
The smell of salt burned onto
Her mucous membranes.
She can taste the ocean water
With every inhalation
Until it seems she herself
Is the ship that bears her
Rocking and listing, aft and stern
Tipped up and ready to plunge down.
Kneeling on the cold winter porch
She finds her knees are wet
But her feet have not yet
Touched the shore.