i am bleached blonde or bleached bones--
whether i'm in the arms of the captain's wife
or never found my way home--
there is this,
in the slant-glance of the setting sun,
reading what i wrote in my extremity.
the ocean waters tried,
battering the glass skin i wrapped this in,
caught within its vastness--
in but not of all that flotsam and jetsam,
riding in a blown bubble of air.
the simple truth is that i couldn't bear
for my children to drown
and so i rolled them down a neck that could not speak--
here is a love poem written by a woman alone.
it is one of many--
what else did i have to do on my own?
only my own two hands, and a will to be heard.
for Ella's Edge at Real Toads. "SOS to the world"