From Ocean. Published by Gaspereau Press in 2013.

We had laughed at first. At the thought. Like it was

a joke. Imagine, the ocean basting us. But how often

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had we walked into its salted air then licked our arms

to taste it later? We were being seasoned. Lightly. Of course we rebelled,

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refusing to be in its roasting pan. But we had never encountered anything

so stubborn. It was worse than a mountain, its altitude

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ranging in the upper echelon of I know you are but what am I?

And it was stoic, like a four-year-old la, la, la-ing. I can’t hear you, it said.

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The artists claimed it was the quintessential canvas.

Call it love, they insisted, and look how love persists. The widows said:

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call it death or call it loneliness. Whatever it was, it was vast and swam

in its lane at the edge of our town without ever resting. It shouldn’t have

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come as such a surprise then, at how tender we were all becoming

and how close we were cooked to tears.

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