sea chanty :: suzanne lummis

    San Francisco

What winds around your feet
is the shade of tarnished
armor, cold. A cramp
shoots up your bones, drives
you out, like tacks. Out
there, the bulky mass sounds
along its floor. Over
your head, deep, cold. If
you wade out your heart
might crack, you
think. Its smell is salt,
feral, both cold and hot.
You let it burn you white,
sole of foot, of palm, your
heart will snap. It goes like
this: we love the sea, it
doesn’t love us back.