fishwife, lost grave, poem, Poetry, sea crone, sea fever, sonnet, the ancient tongue of the sea, underflow, writhingly
Tangled hair in foam. Desolate skin. Breasts
beaten in waves. Where will my ghost shark go
when my lung start to fill? The sea’s conquests
shall all pass overhead while terrors flow
around. Listen: even darkness can blur
in the deepening depths. Without gravestone
or bones you won’t call me your ancestor.
Child of stars and storms. Child of a sea crone
and her fishwife. Orphan of all the drowned.
What good are husky-wet lips when you won’t
kiss them? Underflow: make me writhingly
grotesque, like the Sea’s fey or Brine’s hellhound.
Once I pressed to enter you. You said, “don’t.”
We stopped. My grave lays here: in memory.