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 had we walked into its salted air then licked our arms to taste it later? We were being seasoned. Lightly. Of course we rebelled, refusing to be in its roasting pan. But we had never encountered anything so stubborn. It was worse than a mountain, its altitude 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. The artists claimed it was the quintessential canvas. Call it love, they insisted, and look how love persists. The widows said: 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 come as such a surprise then, at how tender we were all becoming and how close we were cooked to tears.
