by Elisavietta Ritchie
Strangely, suddenly, beating like surf
that splashes now over bulwark and dock,
shock troops of hurricanes farther south
but on course to crash here.
My heart was always docile, ignored
as it pumped full, ebbed on schedule,
pulse normal, blood salty as sea,
relied on, like seasons and tides.
And all the recurrent seasons of love
which jumpstart body and brain—
What's happening now? I don't know.
Such pounding, invisible crimson surf
all day and all night, a generator gone wild
inside my chest and head. Take care!
This casket of flesh and bones
could shower your green world red.
Last updated August 20, 2017