I.

I will never remember

the first time 

I smelled the ocean.

My first breath was so full of brine,

pulled down deep

into screaming lungs

that wrote their own

gospel in the salt

of mother’s blood

that I have forgotten;

everything is not

a warm sea breeze

on a Sunday morning

sunrise.

 

II.

I run out the red door,

framed on two sides

by empty planter boxes

whose life is held

in stasis

below ground

in places I cannot go.

Dressed in Sunday’s best,

I forget my rainboots

and ruin white tights

in the shifting sands,

trying to catch octopus

in salty pools

abandoned by the tide.

 

III.

When my heart broke

(the first time)

a breeze spun

the North Pacific

into a frenzy.

I stood too close

to crashing waves

screaming a hurricane

from lungs too tired

to whisper.

Pushed back from the brink

with brine and salt,

ocean gospel

swallowing my tears.