Wendy Howe
Gulls
stagger the air,
a roof of birds
covering the beach
while the sea rolls in
clothed in the blue fade
of her jeans and jacket.
She watches from the pier
with her shadow underscoring
stray coins
and bottle caps.
A girl
grown so thin,
her two thighs would form
the slender log
of driftwood lying
near the sand dune, the bone work
of O’keeffe,
and the blond hair
blown against her face — wings
folded in
after the landing,
the dark escape
from somewhere
with too many walls. For the moment,
she wants to slip
under their roof and belong —
drink from the wave, its aimless freedom,
and filter the salt, desalinate
what makes her heal or preserve
any wisdom
that would bring her home.
Soon
the shore birds scatter, the sun
half-snuffed
on the horizon,
and she listens to water
wash against the scrub board
of old pilings.
A familiar
rhythm near dusk, a sad
folksong of the tides.
***
Wendy Howe is an English teacher and freelance writer who lives in Southern California. Her poetry reflects her interest in myth, diverse landscapes, and ancient cultures. Over the years, she has been published in an assortment of journals both online and in print. Among them: Silver Blade Magazine, Gingerbread House Lit Magazine, Not One Of Us, Mirror Dance, Strange Horizons, Witches & Pagans Magazine, Goblin Fruit, Mythic Delirium, Eternal Haunted Summer, Corvid Queen, Liminality, The Poetry Salzburg Review and Eye To The Telescope. Her most recent work will be forthcoming in Carmina Magazine and The Copper Field Review later this year.