This Is Not A Rescue

I want to tell you it will not be as you expect. For years
you have hammered in stakes, handed men the rope and said
consume me with fire. Most have run - one does not burn
a witch lightly. This one is water. He'll unbind you, take
your hands in his and say remember how you love the ocean?
Come with me. You'll go to the beach on a cloudy day, watch
foam rise from the sea's churn until sun appears. In turn
you'll say let's go in and even though he hesitates, this man
will kick off his shoes and wade to his shins. Jellyfish,
shot with pink like satin dresses, will dance between you, flash
iridescent. His body is all whorls and planes like smoothly sanded
planks used to make a boat, his ears are pale shells you hear
the waves in, he smells of sandalwood and salt, his eyes
are ocean. He'll spot the pebbles that in secret you have sewn
into your skirts and give you his penknife to unpick them.
You can't swim with those. He'll teach you to skim. The pebbles
break the surface like question marks. You'll throw each last one in.