I am afraid of the ocean in you.
Like my mother did with me, I try to love
by catching your waves in my hands.
And, as I did to her,
you swell and overwhelm
my desperate loving hands.
I can’t hold your tempest for you.
I can’t love you from the shore when you are an ocean.
I can’t kiss you from land
when your nature is to break it.
So I try again. I get in my boat and row out to you.
Your waves slap over the gunwale to swirl around my feet.
If I want to love you I have to stop bailing.
I have to take on water and sink,
roll with you, flow with you, break with you.
When I stop fighting the current,
I find the ocean’s terror
is only kinetics, impeded.
I learn to let it move.
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