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published October 2009

CL Bledsoe is the author of two poetry collections, _____(Want/Need) and Anthem. A third collection, Riceland, is forthcoming this fall. A chapbook, Goodbye to Noise, is available at Right Hand Pointing. A mini-chap, "Texas," is forthcoming from Mud Luscious Press. He has fiction recently in The Pedestal, Pendeldeyboz, and Hobart. His story "Leaving the Garden," published in Wheelhouse, was selected as a Notable Story of 2008 by Story South's Million Writer's Award. He's an editor for Ghoti Magazine. He blogs at Murder Your Darlings.

The Sea

by

This is a poem about the sea,
the way water beads on naked skin, sand
slips into crevices, irri­tates, rubs
raw and clean even the places air
rarely reaches. This is a poem
about seabirds cry­ing lone­some
in the dis­tance, even when they’re close
by, float­ing on drafts of warmth
over turgid waters towards the shore
but never reach­ing it, as though mim­ic­k­ing
the ascen­sion from sea to land,
the smell of decay, the smell of
cold, salt, dirty green, brown, greenish-blue,
white debris, bits of wood dead
and drowned in the sea.
This is a poem about the wet­ness that hides rot
even on flesh, hides the fric­tion
of sand on feet, hides blis­ters,
hides cold, sand that hides
glass, bone, cuts that appear on feet, arms.
ass, back. The sea steals
time, ignores the integrity
of skin. We were dri­ving; you
saw the blur of water, pulled
over, fast, throw­ing me for­ward
in my seat. We walked the rocky shore; the wind
car­ried no smell but took
all warmth. You sat in the sand, stared out
over the dark­en­ing rills of waves, said
noth­ing while I shiv­ered shoe­less,
feet barely damp­ened
but it was too cold to swim.
I lost you that day.