we have slept in these sheets.
I am approaching a time that will leave me
dry and boneached, stoneturned, moss
stripped back. Knotted hair.
I have not yet learnt the secret
sadnesses of ferns, of fossils. I am
trying, each day, a new way of crying,
a new place to stare at the sea, and I
think of this:
did I ever tell you how much water
I could swallow? Open-throated, pour
me full. I could drink and drink
and not reach the end of the ocean, and not
be satisfied with a gut full of salt
or the faint calls of lost creatures. This is all.
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