Saturday, August 10, 2019
Another Repetitive Origin Story
What if the ocean doesn't tell him where it came from?
He lives on the remains of a sea shallow and toothy
Large enough to float giants and catch their bones
In a basin down below the edge of the horizon
Where only the pinnacles of the oil towers show.
He'll know the rumors of where his parents were
As he slowly came to be, the years when they
Were small, when they lived along this coast
Where their dads worked among the pipes
Separating chemicals from the sea.
Nights roll up behind him, forgotten.
What if the ocean never tells him
How deep the past can sink, how the mud can grow
Into both blood and stone?
Sharing this week with The Sunday Muse and Poets United for their Sunday poetry. I'm grateful for being able to spend time in a community of poets, particularly in those times when my own writing feels as if it might congesting into a solid lump of silence. I'm hoping the cooler weather sets in rather sooner this year (I've been watching British gardening shows with naked and blatant envy at the delicate snowfalls in--what, April? May?) so that I can take my notebooks back outside, among the ants and beetles and mushrooms and...well, the spiders can stay over there. Really. Like, waaay over there.
Hope your writing and reading week is going well!