the water doesn’t lap, it rocks, quakes, quivers
has the freedom to feel the weight of itself
we all rest somewhere, in a gradient of density
i don’t sink, i float on stone
a piling of mountains too light to subside
and must be rendered old by other means
there is no mountain of a sandbar that can grant
eyes to the other side of the atlantic
guarded by a curvature that works only in aggregate
punctured by dolphin fins and boat sails
outlined by sunsets and sunrises
clouds cresting over waves
the water doesn’t lap, it rocks, quakes, quivers
has the freedom to feel the weight of itself
we all rest somewhere, in a gradient of density
the other side of the atlantic doesn’t exist
or, if it does, exists a galaxy away in time
only it’s ghost bridges the distance, carried inside me
has the freedom to feel the weight of itself
we all rest somewhere, in a gradient of density
i don’t sink, i float on stone
a piling of mountains too light to subside
and must be rendered old by other means
there is no mountain of a sandbar that can grant
eyes to the other side of the atlantic
guarded by a curvature that works only in aggregate
punctured by dolphin fins and boat sails
outlined by sunsets and sunrises
clouds cresting over waves
the water doesn’t lap, it rocks, quakes, quivers
has the freedom to feel the weight of itself
we all rest somewhere, in a gradient of density
the other side of the atlantic doesn’t exist
or, if it does, exists a galaxy away in time
only it’s ghost bridges the distance, carried inside me
✱✱✱
| Erin Sullivan is a trans woman from southern NJ. At night, she can hear the ocean from her house. Previously published at the Plath Poetry Project, Broad!, sea foam mag, and The Fem. Online at http://erintoknow.tumblr.com. |
