A TIRED WOMAN ON A DIRTY COAST
EXAMINES THE SELF WITH PALE HANDS, A TINY SCAR
ON EACH OF HER FINGERS

James Grinwis

This has little to do with
the substance of a romp through
the wilderness of the other,
the caves like lengths of bundling wire,
all kinds of yellow-green trees
poking from the rocks, fire ants
pivoting in the wing lines of bats,
seeking dominion over the niches and
obscure regions that someone somewhere
holds against one, and one holds
against distant lights. A whale is flopping
around a giant tidepool. A judge
is considering a complaint
against the zoning commission.
Plus a stooped lighthouse
hermit with a seal-skin rag rubbing
out a smudge or maybe plugging
and unplugging a surge protector,
lovingly. What is it that creeps through,
hauling an armoire of dirt, the need to disappear a constant ocean-going wave.
To feel at consistent loss. To put oneself
where one won’t survive. To ache
as if beached.