washing my hair
in the kitchen sink.
Sand leaves its
grit on my scalp.
There is no
scrubbing the
sea from my skin.
I will be born again
unto the waves and
undertow.
The seaweed will take me,
as it had at
first birth.
But this new birth
of my seafaring soul
will be a bright flash
against the white caps,
my back will be
pressed to the sand
and the shore
will kiss my
lips
like no one else
ever could.
While washing my
hair out,
seashells, small
castles and worlds
fall from the blonde
depths.
And I know,
the sea will come
calling
again,
soon.
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