by Molly Elizabeth Fells
1. There is a place in the break by the edge of the sea
where the seashells and the shorelines come together like
the face of some ancient goddess,
predating any wandering poet,
any history textbook,
before anyone gave their own name to this place.
I go there in my dreams sometimes, contemplative and salt-soaked.
In the fever-dream, in the sunshine
that creeps along the cracks between the rocks,
she slipped through my fingers
like the strands of her hair.
2. In the stormgrey, I catch you watching me
for direction, for instruction
but I’ve stopped watching the stars —
they know all my secrets now
fingers tight around the oars, the anchors.
I think you might be shouting my name
but the sound is the same as the stormsong,
your lips the color of the stormsea
and my ears as saltfilled
as my eyes as my mouth as my fingertips.
Molly Elizabeth Fells is a writer from New York City. By day, she studies medicine. At night she reads, sleeps and dreams.