"Spirit of the Sea"
Lisbeth Cheever-Gessaman
Lost keys. Torn lace.
Handfuls of ash and blood
a place of bone and shadows. Bellringers.
Strangers who glanced,
lovers who forgot to. Invitations
never sent.
A space of wings. Cracks.
Stones in pockets
and a sea to walk into.
Smoke and water and kisses.
Ancient magic and blood-soaked clay.
Colors that have no names. Secret aromas.
A hundred girls,
one of them mad.
A dark latitude of ravaged things,
husks and old feathers..
rituals of rain.
Every single moon.
I have become tight without release
and let the wrong words in.
What season, what fissure crept
its way through thick and coiling
tendrils and thorns without once
giving way to some explosive
crimson bloom?
It is a doing thing, a trading of agreements
where I forfeit a birthright of stars
squandering inheritance
for a moment of salt and honey
had I only been more fragile
and less easily
torn
and still drifting at sea
sand and foam in my ears
the ache of a solitary moon
looms mocking
see what you did here
she smiles, cold as bone
from her luminous
and pockmarked maw
yes and wanting it again
again and again.
- Lisbeth Cheever-Gessaman
From "A prayer for sea girls" - work in progress