The ocean itself is a siren. I’ve been creeping closer
for years. Rooted in the black prairie earth
trying to tear myself up. Crossing the country –
there isn’t much difference
between the desert and the doldrums.

A Christmas visit to La Jolla,
where we couldn’t find the heater. We could smell
salt. I could grasp the way iron must feel
a magnet. Two blocks from our rental
on Tourmaline Street, the water never stopped

singing. Winter surf folded in on itself,
and people who knew how to smile
rode the coiled waves until they broke. Even in the cold.
Somehow, their laughter was loud
like the seagulls. I collected small shells

and felt like I was walking on glass
that hadn’t been made yet. Not melted, not blown.
It was waiting quietly under song and foot. Me,
standing ankle deep in the wash,
imagining some impossible future of drowning.

This month we bought a house
an hour from the beach. Further to the north.
Imagine, the rain. Weight of pebbles and abalone shining
in your pockets. Small treasures anchoring you to the shore.
Where you find your edges. Where they soften.