“I miss you and the water is evaporating in the rose bowl.”
All along the sea’s edge, those rosebushes,
rosehips red and plump as tomatoes.
The dog raced ahead — he was boundless, surefooted on the rocks —
in my mind I sketched our country home:
long grasses shushing along the red path
down to the ocean,
our simple garden behind us, three kinds of lettuce,
squash, snow peas.
Before I left, I placed a bowl of water beside your bed
with one wild rose,
bowed my head
to your chest
knowing we are steeped
in such different places.
My mother tells me now to enjoy this longing
but the pull I feel — salt and water —
it is the sea calling me back to myself
and I can’t find what’s pleasing
landlocked as I am in this city:
the ocean
does not reach this far, it stays
tucked away at the edges
where your boat is waiting.
• Poetry • Jessica Moore • link •
