We were an old pier, standing in the sea,
pilings caked with barnacles, ravaged by the currents,
our foundation weak. We waited for the tides to displace us,
unplug us from our feeble grip on shifting sands…
for the sea to bring us to our knees.
The sandy currents burn with salt life
nibbling our shins and worming its way in,
the moon setting our time clock spinning,
one massive watery shift after another.
Age and weather befell us. Our wooden rot
compelled us to fall — can we be blamed for this?
I crawled upon the skin of sand to the edge
where water ebbed, rose and smashed upon itself.
I could have buried our secrets, there in the sand.
The sand crabs scattered and danced sideways across
the rise and fall, into holes that swallowed them up.
They took no mind of me.
The ocean now digests that which was us.
I wrote my name there
— (on the beach
where forgiveness was more vacant than the
roar of a shell)
with scrapings and clawings on malleable sand
I am mere letters; a pier no more.
I walked away, salt stinging in my pores.
Tips for Better Poetry on Blogging Platforms
because your poetry deserves the fairest shot it can get
My name is Christina. I am a poet.
:::i paint with words:::