I can feel it in my gut, you say,
you look me straight in the eye.
My hand placed there, yes, just
above your collarbone,
I want to feel it too. I want
to know it as well as you do.
Yet, all that's in my gut is
an army of little sea men,
setting barrels--pulling down
masts and tying knots. So many
knots, tethering me down in
the midst of all these tossings,
the turnings.
Lightning licks my insides, dark
clouds hanging overhead, a great storm!
I won't allow myself to be cast overboard,
I can't be derailed,
my arms sore from holding to my ship,
calling to my crewmates, please; I'm here,
I'm safe.
When is it okay to let go, I wonder,
and my hand is still on your collarbone, hanging
on to the sinewy handle like I'm holding to to the rails.
Not today, not today. My eyes find
my hands, purple from the cold, and
my hands find my pockets.
