In these waters lie graves
of my father’s blood, ancestors
whose final breath was water –
rows of savage mountains,
mantle of sea closing around them.
They understood wind change,
barometric drops, electric smell of lightning.
Tide seeped inside their shells,
turned in their bones – nowhere to hide.
A glass dome covers me,
covers ruffled bay, whispering pines,
this old house –
a second heart holding memories
and familiar ghosts.
Waves fling themselves upon shore,
battle flags flying,
in ceaseless effort to reclaim land.
The pier, marimba of warped boards,
plays a funeral song.
2024-01-01