MAL DE MER

There is that one invisible moment 

when you are far from shore, 

but the horizon line has other ideas, 

as to what plumbline is real.

That moment where you give up all hope 

for a terrestrial reconciliation with the land, 

because in the trawler, the sea is your only cradle, 

in that briny bath from whence we came,

and you regress to an infantile, colicky stage, 

where nothing is solid, not even the mutiny 

of your traitorous, roiling stomach

and you become like the hunted sea cucumber 

spilling its guts in order to live another day.

The salmon escapes the hook, seeks new depths.

And then you too let go, give up the conflict

of all your worldly goods in the vague hope

for stasis, and seeking a safe harbor, 

you pray for equilibrium, a balance

between sea and sky and horizon.

8/2/23 Write On! Workshop with Terri Glass

I really disliked the model poem. I guess I should post a link to our model poems, but we tend to wander so far afield when we write, that the model poem is merely a jumping off place. An incidental prompt.