Schoodic Point, Maine

I go
often in my dreams
to be cradled, rocked by the wind
whipping into the pines
filtering itself through the soft, green
needles. The sun here is welcoming
but never warm.

I carry a torn sleeping bag, make my
way to a granite ledge, a shelf and
backrest to lean into, to watch
crashing waves, the water
working to
erode.

I wrap myself
in the batting, cocoon into
the thick fears of carrying a child
and loving it whole. Insulated, I work
through the stone to the pebbles to the
sand and I howl. This heaviness, these
pockets of flesh—like the salty, lonely terns
consumed with need, bobbing
open-mouthed, their red tongues lapping
at the air, begging.

I cannot know whose mother
I will be, if
nurturing will come
easy; I lean
into the cold, sharp fog.