Aching

Aching I taught my red wound to breathe ocean, to winnow air from fields of waving water. On land, I know, those gills breathe other flesh. There is no air in that country, only a silver sky that hilts itself in the throat, and then draws out. "How could you leave the warm blue socket of the sea?" they ask. "How could you leave the rib-vaulted, sweat-pearled grottoes where mermen pressed vague muscles of longing against you? How could you trade your storms for this lark-spurred wind, the roar in your conch-ears for this silence, your voice for a noose, your tongue for his tongue, your speech, your speech, for this pound of naked intent stretching towards you?" One night my bare foot will creak the plank in your eye and you will wake and understand. Who would not give her bell songs to feel legs wrap shapes into terrible wholeness and then split apart, the way mine did?