Why can’t she recognise love, or
is she primed to reject it? She wonders why she does
this when she thirsts for connection; the
one thing she needs like land
beneath her feet. She wants to lean
into love, let it weigh her down,
to fix it in place and to
let it lift
her and lower her again, to baptise her in the
cool, cleansing sea.
The salty liquid from
which she breathes love’s air, she is held under;
her lungs they keep drawing
from the cold wet fuel and it
leaves her unperturbed
how the water fills her chest and flows around
her heart. How else will it heal itself?
A Golden Shovel poem based on two lines from Elizabeth Bishop’s poem The Map:
Or does the land lean down to lift the sea from under,
drawing it unperturbed around itself?