BECAUSE IT IS ELUL
I drove two long silent hours to get here,
cut through an August green as lust
and as my body falls, at last, into the sea—
tumulting, crashing all about me—
the skinny man a few yards off shouts
careful! crooks his wire finger toward
the breakers, warning: sting rays.
Water bats. Winged frisbees fan
through salted chaos, their shapes slice
the cresting waves. Shadows moving
behind stained glass, dusky diamonds
fluent in the ebb and swag of ocean
roaring ocean, salivating sea, I stagger out
from the cliff of backward blue, my breath
floats before me like a bell.
All afternoon they come, a moving clot,
dark ribbon dragging through the water.
Waterborn pilots parading their shark skin
and cartilage vessels, tucking and soaring
and migrating somewhere.
I sit and watch, spotlit
in the hot mind of August,
lucky, lucky victim
of this grandeur.
I came to drop my hands into the sand,
to name each regret, each evidence of all
that’s cracked in me like sun-starched
seaweed before the burling waves.
The King is in the dunes, my knees
are gnashed into the grains.
This time each year, we throw things
into the water. Bread crumbs carrying
our failures, our bright faults.
But watching those swarthy ghost fish, each one
big as a window reflecting the sun off the side
of my car, I don’t want to throw anything in.
I want to be whole, I say aloud to the sea,
I want you to be whole. I want the nightmare
of our separation to end.
The wave crests, the travelers revealed
again and again. This is the story God tells
in a language I no longer speak.
From Might Kindred by Mónica Gomery. Forthcoming Fall 2022 from the University of Nebraska Press.