you ask me, lips pressed to vertebrae,
about the ocean: does it weep
for all those lost at sea; does it
remember all it’s taken?

                            the tides have
torn a hole in you, I think, and I
press the slim bones of your fingers
tight against my ribs, and do not say:

I dream, sometimes, of walking on the sea bed;
the calm press of salt like tears,
the sand. down where light has forgotten
its purpose, where the sharks and crabs
have gnawed to the marrow of things,
I think it does. how could grief not dwell
in such fragments, in the offerings
of creatures so devout? I think that
to be held is to be loved; to be cradled,
in the end, and not let go.

but salt waves are lapping at your ankles, love, &
I can’t follow you down.

 

(Editors’ Note: “pockets full of stones” is read by Erika Ensign on the Uncanny Magazine Podcast, Episode 57A.)

Podcast: Play in new window | Download

© 2024 Jennifer Mace