sestina

The fabric of my blouse catches
on the wind like a sail.
It ripples like I am wearing the sea,
stitches snagging like the waves that break
against cliffs, screaming for peace
before sinking back into the swell.


The throaty laughter of gulls swells
against the wind, catching
the ocean spray up in its song, peaceful
in its cacophony, content to sail
alongside music, but not in it. Breaking
on rocks as the sun makes meringue of the sea,


chopping and frothing while the sea-
salt beaches house swollen
people, ripening red from daybreak
to dusk. Their children play catch
in the lengthening tide, watching bodies sail
through the waves, laughing and at peace.


The pink and brown bodies, at peace
and in bloom on the rocks, taste the sea,
but go no closer to sailing
than the gulls do to settling in the endless swell
that flutters like a woman’s sundress caught
by a breeze and patterned by broken


shells and fish hiding beneath the fluid breaking
of water against itself. It never finds peace,
hissing and spraying and catching
the song-laughter of gulls. The sea
will always score the swells
of gull-song and the laughter of children sailing


alongside the bodies in the waves, but sailing
by thought rather than by the breaking
waves. Each swells
and searches for something peaceful
that isn’t the glowing red horizon atop the sea,
too far away for the gulls to catch.


The waves assail the shore, peace
just beyond the broken cliffs overlooking the sea,
just beyond the swelling tide where the children play catch.