a child of water

there,

at the water

my pull to the waves

made sense.

I am a Scorpio,

the swallow of water

enveloping my skin.

to be standing on the lip of land,

the liminal space of the waterfront,

almost swept into the deep unknown

lapping and foldings of water,

a container for the inbetween

between two lands,

a house and a homeland,

to be pebble in the ocean

sunken by its devotion to the water,

I too know of gravity and weight,

of floating, and layers

oil and vinegar,

and to be swallowed by salt

and anchored to the bottom.

the edge is what I have always known

the silky sand, sulking in the wind

slumped into small hills

sculpted by tromping feet

at once fluid and hard,

stiff and slippery

the last breath of the land,

only to be swept by the ocean again,

dissolved into the vast

expansive inbetween.

you cannot build a home on sand

there is too much flooding,

disintegration, disfiguration

crumbling, collapsing, chipping,

splitting,

splintering,

and yet it has a way of clinging,

nuzzling into the nooks of yielding flesh

the back of the neck

behind the ear and knee

between the toes,

I meet sand in my most intimate of places,

in the erogenous, the erotic,

in the reflection of myself

staring back from the water.