You are the one I see as the sea.
The one.
The sun shines off you and
it is in a glimmering, blinding moment
that you surge—
your hands and fingers are
waves that pour downward,
backward over your own
dreams and wishes as
Another calm tide pretends
it’s stronger than a tsunami
growing forth
from you desperation and
loss of power over every day.

Your struggle to reflect the moon is apparent
and every day,
you sit still and fight against
what you’re powerful enough
to wash out—
the sea, the foam,
the riptide,
the undertow,
the lagoon,
they are all you—
And as you hold your young
children close,
they learn everything,
they become bathwater, traveling
millions of miles by cloud
or just up from the aquifer
and your hands and fingers
are little ducks
landing in the sunshine that
reflected so long ago—
bringing you back
to the slow tide
(the gentle sweeps out to sea)
to what you wanted to wash from
from your hands and fingers
red polish fading
under the moon while you
wonder about your future.