August 14, 2020

Sea Language

posted on: Thursday March 25, 2010

Blake Bergeron ’11/Portfolio Staff

By the bay lives a woman who speaks like a whale,

bending sodden sighs into the purpling light

each infinite, free from the ballast of diction.

Her children always finish their dinner and polish their

plates in the sandy garden, never asking

where their father is, has been, or is going.

They kiss the stars and reflect each other’s eyes in old

spoons, pointing to the sea for blues, to the wet sand

for browns, to the mossy door for greens.

I met them once –

walking along the shore in a stupor I came upon them,

pacing in the sand patient as cows chewing their

cud of seaweed, salt and imported barley.

I asked them, “Can you show me the road? I just need to get to the road.”

They went on chewing and stirring the sand with their hands.

Hungry and angry and sore without shoes I sat in the sand

and rang out the soggy rag of myself. I balled some seaweed

in my mouth and began to chew. Out in the water

I could see seagulls floating over the bubbling fish.

For awhile I slept.

Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *