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Drink The Sea

Tonight, after your medicines
capsize you, after you sink
into the churning depths of sleep,
I am going to walk down
to the shore of the sea,
down past the white sand dunes,
down past sandspur and panic
grass, down to the dark wet.

Whatever chemical dreams
you dream, they will comfort you
long enough for me to fall
on my knees, put my head
against the soaking sand
and crash headlong into the surf.

I’m going to open my mouth
as wide as it will go,
and let the ocean rush in.
I’ll drink deep, swallow gallons
and gallons of sea and shells
and galleons rotting under the waves.
All the humpbacked whales
and shark-stuck suckerfish
and the red seahorses, too.

I’ll swallow the Great Barrier Reef
and the Strait of Gibraltar
and every single one
of Sinbad’s Seven Seas,
just to put out the fire
that scorches my brain
everytime I think of you sinking.

I’ll drink the sea dry
to keep you afloat.

This poem was originally published under the pen name Gabriel Gadfly.
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