the ocean is not a good idea. is around 6 years old. is full of freckles.
the ocean embarrasses me. low-income, squirming.
makes me feel different around people in tshirts, with long legs,
or else if i pretended to write a letter
and it only spilled out, raw sewage all over,
on the airplane’s descent. the vulnerable anthropologist.
the ocean is confidently predicted by my embarrassing hunger.
the way we made pretend ocean using ropes and finger-sized breath.
an embarrassment of riches. (yes, i did say many…
but i retextured all the little swimming holes. the fish,
held in place. movement and the needles, a sewing that makes thread get thicker. time
becomes a decoration, or a paperweight. the ocean unravels into paper, just the same,
children splashing at the water basin, the enamel continuous and shoulder-like.
there’s a way you can rent water for these kinds of things,
said one child dancing on cold circles, ignited and strands dripping, pulled.
the entire scene shifts and focuses on one tiny anchor,
keeping the boat
in place, fifty men caught pushing their least
favorite months into the burning engine.
there’s never been a water cooler more easily filled.
if i could step into it, or you, like so many before me,
putting water on my face with my palms
laid out together as if to tell you
i like the weight, the water pulling our hair
into thick globs of rope, infinite fish,
the one child still under her umbrella,
listening to the circles blown out of your mouth.
