Today, election results run, a river
of grief for another river that never
became a wave. Tomorrow, perhaps
a collapse we never imagined:
a bridge, a body, a body
politic, the world.
Still, the tide comes & goes.
As I stand in the sand, the under-
tow pulls my heels, dragging
me insistently deeper. These
returns can suck folks
in beyond their depth, so I know not
to wade further into turbulence,
into a world half-eaten, equal parts
hoorays & handkerchiefs.
A rip tide of hope will buoy
a body long enough to be pulled
into an ocean of despair. So let’s
stand on the strand, where hot
sand & cold sea meet, respecting
that death is death whether we
suffocate or drown, burn or freeze.
Every day is a day on some
beach. This doesn’t have to be
our Normandy. Blue skies, red tides
change. The undertow is just
the immensity reclaiming itself,
& fear – just one wave
resisting.