I feel safe and protected inside and suddenly the storms are everywhere. Unable to grow any stronger out under the canopy of the sky, they come in through cracks in the windows or over telephone lines, seeking new spaces to darken, new light to choke, life to drown.
When the phone rings bad news, you can tell before they even say one word.
It is the way they inhale before speaking the first syllable
(the last syllable before drowning)
I’m thinking of a storm by the sea, the grey sky and the grey water, and all of us on the rocky shore, struggling to push the boat out into the endless ocean.
Arrows fire from off the cliffs behind us,
and the burning on the water feels like our hearts.
I would tell you a story to help you sleep,
and make the dark night pass as though it didn’t even exist,
but then who would be left to tell me a story, and keep me from all the nightmares I know are waiting for me.
I dream about the ocean at night, and everything beneath it.
Maybe there isn’t heaven, but can we intuit the peace of those who are gone.
The waves have claws, and we’re always lost,
but I think I can feel your peace, Rosemary.
I think you are somewhere:
if I can not let the storm be everything,
then there you are, everywhere