Under the Pier

Workshop

I watched her face bob on the surface, pale
beneath the pier - last limb of light,
a fist thrust elbow deep in the still air,
battering the quiet contemplation of the sea
with all the power of it's diesel generators
and multicoloured lightbulbs. She turned

as if she'd drown to see if I'd wade in,
drag her out, give her my coat, scrub
the salt with my shirt, hold her hands in mine.
I still tasted it at home, on her lips. Her hair,
stiffened with it, wilted in the steam
from the bathtub, soft in the glow

of the way things sound underwater.
The moon's clock face soothed us both,
lit cotton wool clouds like a child's nightlight
through the window, where the trawlers blinked
their glass crab's eyes, and the tide crept in
to lick our footprints from the sand.

https://www.reddit.com/r/OCPoetry/comments/ufqfbq/rooftops/i70j34y

https://www.reddit.com/r/OCPoetry/comments/ufrd2c/sardines_a_recipe/i70mcyk

Posted May 2, 2022, 11:50 AM UTC · edited

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