I wrote myself some love poems
today, outlined in sun near the
ocean’s smile. The waves beat down
upon charcoal rocks and up
frothed a great many minerals. I
absorbed them all, flesh-first, like
the fern drinks in the rain. I loved
myself with pen and with sun; when
thirsty, I drank; when hungry, I
ate; when sleepy, I slept—and felt
no reason to do otherwise.
At one point, the wave was so strong
that my foot scraped badly against
the coral. Feeling pain, I cried.
The salt of my body and the
salt of the ocean swirled in circles.
I wanted to watch the sun touch
down along the horizon; so
I stayed until the stars came out.
I wanted a new perspective
so I closed my eyes and touched myself.
Not to intimate places, mind you—
although had I desire, that too—
but my gentle pats were set for
pieces of me I don’t pat enough.
Through the sun and through the paper
I dictated love poems to
myself. Is that not what they’re for?