The rusted latch pushed against 
the cabin over and over, creaking 
as it breaks patches of white paint 
-so silent and rigorous-
running a whistle to that of the wind-
a little girl sits, staring at the waves 
which remind her of 
bodies floating (dead, not living)
with their clothes becoming 
parachutes to lay still in the sea-
the whistling continues to vapour
the breaths no one 
no longer takes
and the girl sits 
waiting for faces to show up, 
for her mother to 
brew her warm milk;
the sea never gulps, 
the sea never swallows, 
the sea never becomes 
the things you lose, 
those memories simply marooned to
those who never paddle to the shores;

she sits on a boat, 
bigger than most,
there’s a compass in her hands 
which swings its faces in all directions
watching her watch 
the sea take shapes 
as its hypnosis sways back and forth- 
a gullible pavement; 
she finds the wrinkles on her
face, traces her loose skin, and 
lets the wind take her shaven head
into a dance of whirls only felt within,
her heart beats 
to the thrashing of the things 
never found in the sea,
rubbing forgetfully into themselves;

she finds herself waiting 
for the salt in the air 
to be cleaned. 


2 thoughts on “Bound

  1. Pingback: Poetry by readers, 3rd set | Agapeta

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