I built a fire of stacked and twisted driftwood

            —the flames going blue, green, purple,

as the salts caught and leapt.

I stripped before the

fire, underneath

the moon.

I was silver like a sauntering eel; the

fire burned and spat curses or

benediction.

I said, show me my future, and stepped forth

that beautiful fire with its damselfly colors

ate into my skin. Stripped muscle, tendons, ligaments.

So, I was silvered bone under the silvered moon;

I turned my nickel-plated skull, stared with

eye sockets like concave mirrors.

Your future?

The driftwood, half-consumed,

spoke in a voice like snapping ribs. Like trees falling.

You built your future just as you built us.

            Bone on the sand. My heart in my hand.        

We cannot show you what we are a part of, any more than

            (waves at my back

                                    singing, my empty pulse in my ears

                                                ringing)

            one cresting wave can sketch for you the whole open Atlantic.

©

Natasha King’s poetry has appeared or is forthcoming in Glintmoon, Lily Poetry Review, and others. She lives in North Carolina and reserves her spare time for writing, prowling, and thinking about the ocean. She can be found on Twitter under @pelagic_natasha