Deep
into azure blue stillness,
we sit in these postures,
folded legs, eyes closed, shoulders dropped
sage cupped in hands.
Tiny miracle waves
touch shorelines
with a swoosh of pebbles laughing.
The slap of a crash of a lit sky,
waves hit
electrical currents,
minds go off
directionless;
another slap of a wave
carries us crashing;
electricity sprinting through finger tips
like stinging ants from ankles shook,
licks of water flung
A gush of a wave slapping,
who gets to ride this one?
This mother fucking wave
taking some of us under
spitting some of us out.
Who will drown?
Who swims to shore?
Who sits on the rocks up above?
Who cries for help?
Who is rescued?
And who gets to drop into this
indigo blue stillness?
How long can we stay
before
the next electrical slap of a wave?
We sit. We breath. We can.
We get out of the way,
but not so out of the way
we can’t see the next one coming.
Electric slap.
Ruptured calm.
And we are gone again,
crashing into one another with our
fears and losses,
our unimaginable grievances.
We tread water.
We throw life lines.
We crawl back to our seats,
our altars.
We sit.
We drop down to the bottom of the sea
and we get out of the way
but never too out of the way
that we can’t see how different the storm
is for others;
not too out of the way that we can’t see
our shared humanity worth getting out of the way for;
until it is our turn to jump, swim, dive, throw lifelines;
recognize privilege,
sing for equality,
dance for distribution,
write poems of revolution;
so all of us can dive below the sea and find
solitude in the depth of HER water loving arms.
by Maureen St.Clair