I am on a cliff
watching the sea roll into the rocks, the shore,
churning white foam and all that cold black below.
I could be any where water meets land.
But I am here,
watching silhouettes and shadows roil
towards sharp rocks. If I kicked a stone,
it would fall, it would sink, disappear. Bodies
face down in the sand. Night, day, then night
over & over again I hold the high ground,
no longer count the bodies piling up stiff,
a horizontal terracotta army. The dangers
of water and war,
rock by rock, build a sad, stoic cairn. Limbs crack
at inhuman angles. Clothes tear, exposing
a chest too cold to touch and smooth
as a varnished hull. Another doll-like body
of a boy, carried to a new land.
Like a cliff, I remain, unmoved
two thousand years old and water
water everywhere. Green water, brakish water,
stone water, starlit water, the north star guiding
some souls home, some souls on course
going away. I want to come down.
Attend to the meaty things broken
on the beach, stacked up. I want to bake
scones all night and use up all the flour.
From this cliff
I could kiss every shore
touched by loss. When the moon is high,
when new rocks get kicked hard, when
it is night again and those heavy terrors
begin to drop.