letter to that which remains

how i’d like to introduce myself: lately i find myself thinking about how we once

fell asleep when the sun set and awoke when it rose. how the earth used to cradle us, guide us in two palms like a second mother. back when we were just vessels that slept and touched and ate & not this strange writhing struggle of a thing

that must always bare its teeth. when did we manage to escape from her arms,

plant our feet, place our fists around mother nature’s throat?

this is how i introduce myself to the sea. i am careful.

i say don’t worry. i will apologize when i kiss you. the sea responds:

in my dreams i am always in danger. in my dreams i am a woman with cotton fists.

i tell her i wish to be knee deep in the water like my ancestors.

i wish to be knee deep in this beautiful earth, in anything at all.

to know feeling like the women before me. in the tender grasp of the waves

i take pictures of the earth like she is a lover who will

disappear tomorrow. i am digging my fingernails

into this cliff face of a world. what a place with her lonely wild eyes.

i want to tell her it’ll all be okay, though it won’t. want to tell her

not to take flight yet, though she should.

i want to say give us a minute. maybe we’ll work it out.

but the road stretches empty and crude.

and the sea yawns wide and tired, catching devils in its open mouth.

and the world says:

if there was an ocean big enough to hold me

i would wade into it and never return.