Wednesday, July 1, 1987



You used to drive me out to the ocean
and I'd sit there wondering what
the hell was going on.

The guano-whitened rock is a spray of wave
frozen against the surge of the sea.

Women in relationships turn it inward,
the grief and the sorrow,
like heads of seaweed, listening
for secrets. You sit there
looking out to sea, inscrutable.

The crab is homeless.
He clings onto kelp
until it breaks under his weight,
the sea sweeping him away to another rock
another woman.

All rocks are his home.
Men go so easily, without the trauma.

A decade later I cannot return
to Russian Gulch. Scene of the crime.
Cliff shadows on a wall of sea-mist.
Cormorants wing seaward
and the wind keeps their secrets.

rev. 88

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