I let a man take me to the sea

one night, when the moon was

cut exactly in half. I held one

piece in my hand and threw the

other into the tide, watching it

shiver underwater as though it was

only a reflection of itself. It was

colder than it should have been, and

we traced the lip of the beach at the

point where it slipped into wetness,

the sand shimmering, and watched a

horse plough its hooves into an

ephemeral route, and fire sparking

from the stalls of corn vendors. The

church glimmered in the distance.

When this man took my hand, I did

not even notice if it warmed me;

too distracted was I by the piece of

moon sinking, hopeless, at my feet.
You have been gone a very long time.

And so I wear a dress the colour of

night, ornaments like stars, and I

sing down the sky as though I knew its

secrets, as though I knew anything at

all. I confuse the scent of my skin with

that of the wind breaching the stillness

of the morning bay. I watch men leave

the country on boats like floating

lanterns and return as the horizon

begins to burn up in cinders. I watch

them throw and seize in their nets,

what they capture glistening in the

fading light, and think of how you

didn’t hold up your end of the dream,

how you left me waiting with my piece,

pacing the length of a forgotten coast.
I go to the sea with man after man

and let myself be licked all over

by tongues of water. But what good

is it to stand in the ocean, to break

upon the shore, to look out at

all this all this gravity and darkness

and sea, such sea, and find not even

one single ounce of salt.