Grey swathes of salt bush

pulling at the wind,

the earth curves here

wide and empty as it is.

Small towns pinned like mistakes,

like smudges on red rocks.

The blunt hours and hours of the car,

the driving,

the engine.
Leaving is on repeat

over and over,

a fear

at the back

of my mind.
At the coast,

my sister tells me

the ocean has a memory.

It holds remembering

in its moving mass.
The slip of sand,

shells under my feet

and the bird that drifts on the wind,

just out of reach.
Here at the earth’s edge,

my sister tells me it’s alright

and we watch the clouds

as they lift our eyes up,

to the point

so far in the distance

it becomes something

I can hope for.