I need wringing out like a washcloth,
but I mustn’t leak any more:
my green eyes stinging,
salt mounds pooling pink around me.
I made jars and lamps and slabs from it
but they just won’t sell, this time of year.
something keeps telling me I need more water.
last night I gathered my nets for rinsing,
measured movements for self-conditioning under freshwater rules.
every inch of this room, from temperature to pressure
is at careful control and conscious whim
there the dash of my heart a-charging, a thousand knots and rocks ahead.
(mama oceana I invoke thee, I invoke thee
your devotee upon which to crash and break.
mark your crest on my car floor and my towels,
make me the safe-again tide in your arms:
mama make this swelling, my bittersweet welling
no wreck, but some part of your plan.)