Monday, March 6, 2017

The Elephant Blanket (a poem)

The elephant blanket still smells like the sand, like the surf -- even though I washed it--
like the little bits of dried up oceanic life that came out of the ocean dead riding a casket wave to a sandy burial
or came out alive and toiled for awhile, picking out nits from the sand, then meeting the maker, face-to-crustacean-face.
The elephant blanket smells like sunscreen (lavender, coconut, biodegradable), like sweat, like our bodies, mine and yours
like rain from Napili, like wine spilt at Makena, like nakedness on Little Beach -- my breasts smashed into the fabric, ass up, free to the breeze,
but mostly like the sun.
The elephant blanket smells like the sun.
I will wrap it around my body tonight to see if I can feel its heat dive deep into and through my skin, to make me feel alive again, to feel whole under the eye of God.
To drive away the cold rain and gray of the sky we live under once again.

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