i am tired of living like a ship before wreckage:
chaotic and shifting on an uncaring ocean.
i am waiting for her,
for the woman who will hold me down
like an anchor,
until i stop feeling like I am going to pitch
and roll off the deck.
till i stop feeling like i am going to slide out of my own body.
we know the moon closer than the ocean,
our own mother
who sanctified us and commanded us to land.
we love the moon's alien, lovely face
more than the cold, wine-dark waters
who gave us life,
because they cannot also be convinced not to take it.
sitting silent as an abandoned building
like a city
that's been ancient since it was built
and full of cobwebs.
so i do not touch your hand
i wonder how your crumbling fountains
used to giggle joyfully
in your cheerful squares.
but now your waters are still,
and your center is empty
so i am afraid of you
and i do not touch your hand.