Content in air-conditioned train cars
I am still shedding skin to Atlantic salt and Moroccan sand
not yet feeling the linger of the African sun on my red red limbs.
Night has fallen and we are miles away yet but morning was spent in the surf
letting the waves tangle and untangle and re-tangle my hair
smiling at the familiar feel of riptide around my legs
the undertow I nearly called by your name
the dangerous and demanding pull to deeper waters.
Rushing in and tempting me gracelessly, irresistibly on.
I can feel the echos of those waves on my skin even now.
As clearly as I see the mile-long stare you hide with a smile.
I know better than to provoke the wrath of such an angry sea.
You'd drag me out and down and be done with me
broken, sea- and sand-polished smooth
I would wash ashore alone
harder and more beautiful for your destructive ways,
perhaps,
skin-smoothed and eye-bright
but I would spend my life lying in wait
for a hand to skip me back out to sea
and never again walk into your waves,
a provocation on two unsteady feet.
