Poem: Tongues

 

Tongues

 

the ocean, always a child,

as if it had been denied

because it is fed so much.

every mountain weeps

into its aquamarine arms,

feeding height to its depths

of silt and darkness.

 

maybe too much hope had been placed

in the thaumaturgy of rain.

the myth that it coated the skin of

the ocean’s grim water with fresh chances,

which had spent previous lives dying.

 

the ocean simply

sticks out its many tongues, savoring,

always a child, as if the rain

were the gentle paw

of a grey-ribbed cat.

what could that cat know, after all,

of the regal yet defiled salt

of the wounded earth?

 

 

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