By Craig Hallam
Pale ankles buried in the brine,
the sand washing against your roots,
you were timeless there,
the hem of your skirts
floating on the ebb tide.
O, let me never see the ocean again
if it does not caress your sweet self.
The wind gave birth to the sea breeze
that it might play in gentle fronds
loosed from your tress.
The scent of wood smoked fish
comes on the wind.
O, let me never breathe again
if your scent is not in the air.
With dulcet command the horizon obeys,
the midnight ocean bows.
Blade summons your rich blood,
and shocked arousal
from this onlooking thrall.
O, Nightshade, strike me down.
This life is lived at your behest.