Oscillating water fills my bell.
Bobbing and tumbling; no crashing waves;
Only a steady push, like a mother prodding a child
Toward unknown relatives.
Or guiding a sleepy toddler to bed,
A glass of wine waiting on the counter.
A silty fog. Sand scraping my crown.
Suspended at shore, I glimpse a new land,
Freckled pink and orange; those lost before.
I don’t want to see them!
I don’t want to sleep!
Stick legs and a pinch, and eyes glowing gold.
“Not ready!” Screams the gull.
“Over here. Over here!”
A last shove. A whispered kiss.
Forced to bed by a world withdrawn.
The tinkle of glass.
The jingle of keys.
Fading laughter and
The close
Of a
Door.
I don’t think she’s coming back.
Through the red of my bell, an expanse of purple.
Home without the wash of love.
You forgot me!
Father Sun huffs.
Filtered guidance now stinging rebuke.
He lashes down and beats the sand dry.
The granules drink at my webbings.
Organelles
Struggle
To
Pulse.
Brown shadows scuttle my face,
Biting and tapping with spiked feet.
First one, then thirty.
Zipping away.
Returning
Again.
My flush fades – and purple is blue.
The vastness
Unexpected.
I don’t think she’s coming back.
Poem © Carol Fullerton-Samsel 2021
Photo by mxart of Pixabay
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