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