The Salt Wish

Cold Atlantic,
I hear you calling.

The siren hordes,
lonely, bawling,
break the surface,
reaching

and clawing.

In my slumber,
the many miles,
crossed, ashore,

crawling,

but,
now I wait,
my feet are one
with the cold sand,
celebrating
this mutual
belonging.

Whispering
my salt-wish
from a heart
long frozen,
but now thawing,

“Float away, so silently,
my wish, the siren’s rapture,
and my grave is the sea.”

The deep reach
washes my ankles
as the cold
gnaws, deeply.

But,
as the salt sea,
endless,
ceaseless,
cleanses me,

I shrink
by layers washed
into the deep,
and as I sink,
each siren’s
embrace
lulls me
to blackest

and deepest sleep.

©️ 2019.