Another night’s atmosphere purpling into furor
over the sea, waves beating the shore before breaking
into surf, unspoken treachery of the undertow,
and I remember it was you who demanded I make peace
with volatility. Such a long season of forecasting
each crest and crash of your brows, every bluster of wind
shifting your lines in the sand. What did you expect
I would become? Not medusa, drifting unhearted,
unspined, unable to stomach a turning tide. You should know me
hungrier, beckoning every vessel between these jaws
and those deeper: viperfish, eel, osedax, angler. I am
no creature you know. Born to a brine I will watch sicken
you, no oyster—unable to make of grit, nacre.
