Mare

some women have a little of the ocean
hidden in them

just a touch of uncouth audacious brine
skirt-covered and petticoat-shackled
waiting to burst free

a tidal pool amidst the rock of the shore
too long cut off from the deep
signed over to a man, crown and all

--she
a figure in soiled white
nearnaked on the deck
at the mercy of the elements
wild wind and ocean
and me

wide liquid staring eyes--innocent?
blue and sparkling as the waves undersun
trembling a question.

paid in virginal hair
the knife, meant for his breast
tears cloth

my wordless mouth a whirlpool
(world-pool)
pulling her in
sucking her under
--our prince, my shaven sisters astonished

(. . . a deviation
from what expected happy ending?
what sad departure, scattering over wavetops
like froth?
what sacred penance?)

my waters closing over her head, holy

no knife-pain between (my legs) us
with each harsh landbound thrust
of hips and torso
only salt and sharp sea-smell
intoxication of cliff-top winds
on summer nights
overlooking wave upon wave

upon wave.
the irresistible pull of tides
her landflesh warm under
my fingers fishbelly white and cold.

flavors of home
warm southern waters,
perfumed.

the woman is the ocean
surging, her body wracked and rolling with swells
perilous and powerful

the woman is my soul
(salvation)

I am home.  come home.

come (home).