I stand,
tender and wild
at the water's edge.

I'm told,
as waves punch my knees,
that it's a great day
for a viking funeral.

Water's at my waist,
salt-wind pulling at me,
the soft veil covers me,
my face, hair
and extremities so cold and unevenly tanned.

I'm told,
that I look as if I'm waiting
for some fisherman husband to come home from see.
Maybe I am.

And then my mouth is full of saltwater,
as are my eyes,
my face,
hair,
grains of sand carried by the atlantic
travel the lifelines of both my palms

when I lift my chin above the wave,
I'll have wrinkles,
and a mortgage.

I'll be on the street.
clothed in a trench coat, trousers and my propriety,

when i'll be told
that I look as if I'm waiting.

Maybe I am.