I could, even now, go down to the water
by Sarah B. Cahalan
Even from this distance I could go out
the door it would bang shut and crumble
the moon would illuminate the small stones
I’d walk along the white stones among the trees which
hiss and rattle in the wind in the darkness
of a peninsula in an inky ocean where electricity
never existed or if I’m seeing things correctly
where today’s conveniences are buried
turned and burned and picked over
the wind is warm my hair would
thrash as I walk as the gusts
shake the trees and rough the water
I’d go out of the house and into the air and
down to the water the white tipped waves
Even now I could compress and hurl myself into the water
like a gannet
Salt on my brow and my nose and my chin and my cheeks
The stars are falling
It’s August or something like that
on Earth or similar
So many things are gone
Most of the words
but still the water the wind the moon the trees a handful
of birds and snails the scraps
of books with
illegible words where the mildew’s
growing
