Tags
a taste like brine, he called me Jah, homoerotic, merman, rasta in the surf, stone and bone thrill
Up there it’s a bastard: rain, tears, spit, piss.
I’ve had it all. Down here, though, each deep breadth
pleases; the sun is a beacon. There’s bliss
in this pressure per square inch. Crushing depth,
they call it. All the sky is full of blue
ripples. There are two-legged boys I know, shy
when they first meet mother. What’s that haiku?
“Mother I never knew,/ every time I
see the ocean/ every time.” Yes. Indeed.
Go down, love, I tell them. They taste like brine.
How odd that things made of bone and stone thrill.
I had a lover who called me “Jah;” smoked weed
floating on the surface. I took what’s mine
“I love you,” he said, as he kissed each gill.
