by Julia Lundy
Tide Pools
I cannot find the apology I needed to deliver,
only strange, soft creatures clinging to rocks
and fish praying for the next six hours to end.
Amid small worlds out of place, I offer you
the stone with a hole through its center,
but you remind me I cannot take anything home
with me, even this gift for you. At rib tide,
seaweed swoons in piles along this beach
as though it couldn't bear my unrefracted gloom.
When the waterline waxes, it will bring with it
fresh chains of life, turgid and bright,
that will remind me of things like the softness
of unmown grass or the warm booziness
of almond cookies. Please forgive the way
I let the moon paw at me. I am sorry. If
the deep, cold ocean can't resist it, how can I?
Julia Lundy lives in the U.S. She writes poetry to feel connected to the people she hasn't met.