The Sea

THE SEA



This is a poem about the sea,
the way water beads on naked skin, sand
slips into crevices, irritates, rubs
raw and clean even the places air
rarely reaches. This is a poem
about seabirds crying lonesome
in the distance, even when they're close
by, floating on drafts of warmth
over turgid waters towards the shore
but never reaching it, as though mimicking
the ascension from sea to land,
the smell of decay, the smell of
cold, salt, dirty green, brown, greenish-blue,
white debris, bits of wood dead
and drowned in the sea.
This is a poem about the wetness that hides rot
even on flesh, hides the friction
of sand on feet, hides blisters,
hides cold, sand that hides
glass, bone, cuts that appear on feet, arms.
ass, back. The sea steals
time, ignores the integrity
of skin. We were driving; you
saw the blur of water, pulled
over, fast, throwing me forward
in my seat. We walked the rocky shore; the wind
carried no smell but took
all warmth. You sat in the sand, stared out
over the darkening rills of waves, said
nothing while I shivered shoeless,
feet barely dampened
but it was too cold to swim.
I lost you that day.



C.L. Bledsoe

Posted over on Suss