Edge, Atlantic, July
–Annie FinchI picked my way nearer along the shocking rock shelf,hoping the spray would rise up to meet me, myself.Seagulls roared louder and closer than anything planned;I looked out to see and forgot I could still see the land.Lost in a foaming green crawl, I grew smaller than me;shrunk in a tidepool, I heaved, and I wondered. The seagrew like monuments for me. Each wave and its coloring shadow,bereft, wild and laden with wrack, spoke for me and had noneed of my words anymore. I was open and gladat last, grateful like seaweed and glad, since I hadno place on the rocks but a voice, and the voice was the sea’s:not my own. Just the sea’s.