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Intertidal, a poem by Doris Lynch


At the edge of the sea
you are more than human:

you are whale and flounder

dancing porpoise and somnolent seal.                 

You are sunlight and the blue-grey depths.

Saline infuses your cells as though 

all the salt caverns of the world 

circulate through your body.

You are ocean sounds: crash and whoosh,

splash-release and lap, lap, lap.  Some days 

the scalloped edges of the sea write and rewrite 

their stories.  Other days the last two inches 

of a wave elevate you skyward, and you water-ski 

over crumbling sand. In the sea foam, shells 

clink and clank; the softest pings of the tiniest 

seek shelter inside your suit. The ocean—

whatever its name—Atlantic, Pacific, Caribbean—

enters you, fills you. You are the mango orb 

the sea releases into sky each morning, 

and rocks gently to sleep each night.

Doris Lynch has recent work in Frogpond, Modern Haiku, Tipton Poetry Journal and in the anthology: Cowboys & Cocktails: Poetry from the True Grit Saloon. The Indiana Arts Commission awarded her three individual artist's grants, and she has worked as a librarian and an Ivy-Tech creative writing instructor.