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.