The moon is a silvery dress floating over the sand to the sea.
Her light
creates shadows among the dark damp grains, tendrils of seaweed wrapping around
strong ankles.
Witch castles, dried and forgotten, crumble under sure steps.
She whispers to her frothing companion, the thunder of his answers echoing over
salty skin.
Her light reflects in the rolling water, the waves storied with
different lands and the same fiercely speaking stars.
Her feet sink into
shifting earth, creatures wriggle and draw her deeper in.
Knees wet and
trembling she kisses the drops against pale hands, tastes the damp comfort of
home.
Thighs drift in an ocean of silk and thread, the moon meeting its horizon
in the velvety night.
A wall of white foam approaches.
Her lover has come to
embrace her in liquid tentacles, icy edges caressing her arched back as she
dives in.
She smiles as her heavenly bodice floats around her belly full of
breath, corsets of bone returned to the sea.
Tumbled and torn open, her heart
sinks into the shell strewn ocean floor where it sighs and weeps,
“I am here. I
am ready.”
Her fins meet solid ground, her gills fill with droplets of air.
The
moon emerges from the sea, as it has every night for eternity, seen or felt or
not, the loom of possibilities blinding those waiting for her on shore.
Her
shape has changed, as it always has, and the myths to be told of the marriage
of moon to deep dark sea
have been told,
are being told,
will forever be told
in this drenched and luminous moment.
