Shanty

Arms raised like cobras
charmed by the zurna ,
she conducts the waves,

all cymbal crashes and timpani drums,
tubas, basses, cellos,
until the treble of flutes and bells

rise on the foam,
and the death rattle of vibes crescendo.
Fingers reach

towards running legs
retreating to dry land.
Those too slow

fall into the music,
tumble with seaweed
to be spit out on shore,

to spit out salt and laughter.
It is there, with sand in her hair
the spell is cast

and she breathes along with
the lung of the world;
the bellows of god ,

sighing
breathing
screaming

operatic, in harmony.
Never has the water
sung just this way,

with these rhythms
and it never
will again .

She finds a gull feather quill
and writes a poem
in a secret language

known only to her
and the ocean.
She scoops up the words

in two fists,
lets them fall
t hrough her fingers

into the surf,
a soft rain.
Each grain,

the beginning
and ending
of a song.