HUSK 1.1

by Candace Walsh

The ease in which
I fell asleep
against her chest

as she felt
my head’s weight
and the not-weight of my hair,
as it fanned across her skin
and spilled into her underarms’ dark silk.

                 Childhood summers
                 I would stand waist-deep
                 within the gentled sea
                 as if it were my vast and rippling skirt
                 and sunlight my chemise.

                 Below my feet
                 a ballroom floor of glossy stones.
                 I’d trace the seaweed flumes
                 borne by the brine
                 fine-boned as hair
                 of black and rust and aubergine.

Rootless seaweed drinks in riches
from the medium in which it
floats and wanders. How do oceans feel
about these languid vagabonds?

Against her skin I knew, I think
how seaweed feels.
The sea must feel a thing like love.