Wednesday, April 08, 2020

At dusk, she is an old woman.

Whitecaps highlight her hair,
scudding to her shoreline shoulders.

She scents herself with salt in memory
of lovers whose names she forgets.

Her heart is dark with sailors bones:
men who loved her unto death.

At night she pulsates under stars
wearing black for her late loves.

At sunrise she sheds her mourning dress
and dances in silvery slip.

And she is young again.

Tom Keene
September 26, 1995