The angry sea
is cold
and clutching.
Her great coral claws
are hungry
and cutting…
pieces of me, peel
from the bone,
as a meal served,
choked down,
devoured,
forgotten,
and gone.
Delicate seas,
offerings,
deliveries
still warm,
sacrificial,
as feasts
for all those sharks
swirling amidst
their frenzied
and murderous
huntings.
As I die,
the salt cleans
my wounds,
painful and burning,
like memories.
But,
the blood mixes
into the foam,
‘ever-churning,
as it twists,
tearing
at roots,
long-gripped fully
in her fist,
pulling
and tugging
at the battered kelp,
like a nervous lover
fretting over a
braid of her hair.
It folds over itself,
infinite, rippling,
uncaring, and glistening,
‘neath the haunting
moonlight.
As I end,
I wonder whether
the Angry Sea
truly understands
that her love,
so old, and borne
by the waves,
well-hidden by the deep,
is not meant
for me,
a man.
She will be sad again,
as the lifeless-me sinks,
or eddies as flotsam,
or twists in her wake
as jetsam-meat,
brined,
wet,
and rotting.
She will forget her love,
but, I, still roiling inside,
will remember long enough,
to clutch a sailor
in my coral claws
and drag her down
into the blackness,
to be as one.
©️ 2020.
