Eat the Sun

A poem of erosion

The ocean grabbing the shore, offering trinkets,
flattens his belly to convince her of his quietude.
He is simply a moon puppet, pulsing
in his eagerness to soften her craggy edges.
He forgets how she already hugs him
with the heft of her bosom; so he pulls her out bit by bit,
grain by grain, blending her into him.

I understand why they play with each other the way they do —
the allure of depth, all boundaries begging to be crossed,
but as a Midwesterner, the ceaseless game drives me mad,
and I find myself yearning for the safe shadows of shag-bark hickories.
The sky is too low here;
we are too exposed, my fragile family and I.
Time melts over us like an ice cream scoop.

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