Edge, Atlantic, July
hoping the spray would rise up to meet me, myself.
Seagulls roared louder and closer than anything planned;
I looked out to see and forgot I could still see the land.
Lost in a foaming green crawl, I grew smaller than me;
shrunk in a tidepool, I heaved, and I wondered. The sea
grew like monuments for me. Each wave and its coloring shadow,
bereft, wild and laden with wrack, spoke for me and had no
need of my words anymore. I was open and glad
at last, grateful like seaweed and glad, since I had
no place on the rocks but a voice, and the voice was the sea’s:
not my own. Just the sea’s.
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Disclaimer
We do not accept unsolicited submissions. American Life in Poetry is made possible by The Poetry Foundation (www.poetryfoundation.org), publisher of Poetry magazine. It is also supported by the Department of English at the University of Nebraska-Lincoln. Poem copyright ©2020 by Annie Finch, “Edge, Atlantic, July” from Read Water: An Anthology (Locked Horn Press, 2020.) Poem reprinted by permission of the author and the publisher. Introduction copyright © 2024 by The Poetry Foundation.