I have so often felt bad for the sea.
The so relentlessly destined sea,
the inexorable sea,
the unable to say Kiss me here and here
or Please, I just want to sleep sea.
I misread Akheilos,
the shark-shaped sea spirit
as Akheilos, the heart-shaped sea spirit,
such was/is my habit
of seeking love where there is none.
Here is what little girls should
dream of: hair like a mermaid’s,
the grace of a dolphin,
jewels, breath that smells of apples.
And haven’t I since forever wanted to live
in a cave at the bottom of the ocean?
I am always underwater –
in a swimming pool, running my hand
along its white tiled floor/in a cool,
dark lake rising to the surface/
perhaps I’m pressing the bottoms of my feet
to the surface of a slimy grey dam/
cutting through a calm sea,
parting a shoal of bright red fish.
Underwater, you are in either
the prison or castle
of your own heartbeat,
inner workings.
The poor, over-romanticised sea.
The lonely sea calling out for a friend
to go drinking with on a cold,
winter evening. And the sea is hungry,
of course.
It’s hard to imagine
the speed of a tortoise’s heartbeat
as it hovers in dark water.
And when its heart stops beating,
long after it’s dead,
it’s hard to imagine its imprint
in a night sky – a constellation
appearing slowly, like a million
brilliant ideas pressing into the mind.
I find it very hard
to believe that drowning
can be a peaceful way to die.
The sea is lonely at Christmas.
And when you watch the rain
hitting the sea it seems
like a great absence returning home,
but who can be sure of any of it –
the inscrutable sea, the sea
like a rusted mirror,
the sea turning its back on you
with a long, disappointed look.