i cannot tell
how we can grow from the ocean.
my lungs catch
on the love you lathered
in my throat -- and i know we cannot
always resolve it, clip
its battered wings so it may
not fly -- i know
we cannot resolve it
by glazing the wound
with old battered i love you --
i know we cannot always resolve it
with our tongues
touching the same words --
i know i cannot
resolve it
when spreading my thighs
doesn't make it go away --
and i cried
and looked away,
because the loss was my own
the sterile burn in my arms
to nurse and grieve.
YOU ARE READING
THE OCEAN
Poetry'In the old days at home the Neverland had always begun to look a little dark and threatening by bedtime. Then unexplored patches arose in it and spread, black shadows moved about in them, the roar of the beasts of prey was quite different now, and...
