Every fourth week, the floodgates unbuckle
and part the sea. Blood eddies in a river dance
and I find myself suddenly wildened,
fifty milliliters rising to the moon’s pull.
I sorrow fully, releasing my soul
to the dappled pelt of the night sky.
I am not with the waves, but I want to be.
In the distance I hear the men howl,
snouts to the heavens. Wolves return
when they scent the red-hooded girl
who lays poppies in her foamy wake,
crowding the coastline with her heat.
Here, in the brine-dark of twilight,
I can smell the tides. A flush of salt
bulges to the surface. I feel waterlogged.
I want to touch the fish that dive like ribbons
through the ocean, silver-streaked, with the reddening
reflection of the blood moon and her ichor harvest.
Beautiful. I especially enjoyed the buoyancy in the poem – I felt the drawing/rising and falling/diving/sinking like waves or tides. Especially succinct was the line: “I am not with the waves, but I want to be.” And like the rising and falling, there were the repeated/contrasted/linked images of wolves/men scenting and the speaker smelling, the red-hooded girl and the fish diving like ribbons, and the subtle recurrence of the color red. This poem moved as it read. Well done.