Tides by Eleanor Holmes

Tides

by Eleanor Holmes

Pulled from my mother’s womb,

I clung on. Resisting the waves and

Obstetrician’s skill; his metal hands

clamped on my soft-born skull.

 

An audience waits to greet me.

Green gowns and flashing knives,

routinely detached. Expected to find

my own way back, I am set adrift.

 

How I searched for that sea again.

Running further, never settled.

Trapped by narrowed horizons

always wanting to dissolve.

 

Still far from her, I’ve found a place

where frets engulf the town.

The sound of the foghorn lulls

me to sleep. The moon a pull away.

 

I like to drive with the windows

down, tongue lolling like a dog’s.

Taste salt and the sea-sting on

my cheeks. The slap of her hand.

 

Eleanor Holmes