Carol Carpenter

Cross Current

The undertow yanks me
just below the surface. Sucks me
back to birth, that long canal
of dark. I wiggle to light,
crawl to beach. Rest where
I am defined. A human wreathed
in seaweed, damp with promise.

Like you, I have a soft body, hard
mollusk shell on my back. I can
creep on shore, retract my head, leave
a trail of where I’ve been. I have once
risen from the salty brine, the ocean floor
safe, now with deadbolt locks on every door.
I hang suspended, a shell of myself.

At midnight, I will come where you are,
baptize myself in ocean. I will drop fathoms
to where you swirl in quicksilver cross currents.
We will bathe ourselves, braid Neptune’s beard.
Let us embrace a wayward current, etch its moves
on our armor. We will jitterbug a storm
full of white lightning and thunder words.

 ____

Carol Carpenter’s stories and poems have appeared in Yankee, Barnwood, Byline, and Quarterly West. She is a former recipient of the Richard Eberhart Prize for Poetry.