Ocean City, July 2011

Strangers in the water

It was that time of day, when the sun was rushing slow beams

through the spokes of the Ferris wheel, when the sudden calm

of day struck the boards and the gulls seemed to flutter

from the release like ash tossed to the winds—it was then,

when the sea turned to a white boulevard, to mirror

the broad walk of the board beside the strand,

that we were startled by the bright, mercurial beauty

of the dolphins, streaming as they did just out of our reach.

In bewildered concourse, arrested at the cries sent up and down

from the Ferris wheel’s slow progress to the lights of the pier,

we listed to the beach side, devoured the teasing glint of the dolphins

in the waters of our late exodus. The Ferris wheel may have stopped

its spinning—we didn’t noticed. All that was remarkable

was the bright suggestion of alien movement in the white

glass water, familiar creatures unreal again in their now

incredible proximity. For a few moments, it is us—and them.

For a few unclear moments, we utter only unintelligible noise,

undistinguishable from the cacophony of hungry gulls,

unlovely beside the joyous, white silence of the strangers in the water.

It needs work, but it's gotta breathe!

PRAYER

On Sunday, I open up the house

to let in the June morning

to ease cobwebs from the empty rooms,

to efface dreams

adhering to surfaces.

The weather—

inimitable oppression—

 has broken, and at last

we have a little serenity.

At noon, the time for baptism,

I strip the bed of its clothes—like a woman

praying for her old voluptuousness.

I wash the sheets in cold water,

laced with lavendar and mint,

hiding thyme in the corners of the mattress

to conceal the heavy taste of sleep,

and mad dreaming.

I make a breakfast of mango slipped

from the flesh, orange water, cheese

& bread sprinkled with oils and thyme,

sweet plums. All day,

I do not speak a word.

One afternoon, oh it was many of them,

I spent hours just sun worshipping.

It was easier than dreaming, you

could come away with a cleaner feeling.

The liquid feeling of sunshine in the veins

was clarity.

Every so often, teased by the suggestion of being born,

I stand naked in sun,

reminding myself of distant travelers who

prayed to the air or sang

parched hymns to a tranquil god.

I search for him in the dazed clover,

my fingers grazing sound,

the tender in the long grass, all summers

distilled and scattered  through these empty rooms.

I am praying, praying.