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