Your lips are like sardines, love
Fresh from the brisling tin.
When I kiss your lips, dear,
I forget which ocean I’m in.
The fragrance from your sea-breeze breath
Transports me to the shore;
Sensations from the sand in our bed
Leave me hungry for more.
Your kelp-hair flows, so wet and long,
I clutch it to my face;
While gulls and terns, they wheel above
Our warm driftwood embrace.
The salt stains that you left behind
Upon the bed and chairs
Haunt me like Poseidon’s grief
As I trudge up the stairs
To nudge my sea-green memories;
— Oh, how I have cried
Since the day I stood on the shore
And watched
As you went out with The Tide.
Stephen Bolles
All rights reserved
1983