It seems the sea can be a silent voice.
The fisherman’s wife feels the waves extend
her presence, so she kneels as if the choice
were hers alone. We watch her pretend
that the wedding is hers to consummate.
For while she has our skin, we know she hides
our tiny self so deep inside her she must wait
alone, alone like us inside the tides.
Our tentacles and beak can bring her back
to the sea again. She kneels and spreads her legs.
Look at Hokusai’s woodcut. Look at the lack
of perspective in each wave. Being begs
forgiveness. I would spare you this, she seems
to say. But loneliness is found in dreams.