thrice salt Friederike Wiessner
the storm last night gave gifts to the meadow: seaweed feeding flattened grass shells and plastic left unclaimed in the grey light these days, i go to the black shore and cry aware i’m the only spark of fire in a landscape of cold calling me home. the storm keeps pushing the infinite to my shore: ‘kiss me feed me your light.’
if i were to give my blood to the sea, what would happen to us? all i want is a soft surrender, the eternal to pierce me, surround me— i take off my shoes. i’ve come to know i am a woman, wayward and wild, and alone.
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