Schoodic Point, Maine
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
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.
1 reply on “Schoodic Point, Maine”
Very well done.