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i remember waves
on the sea at night,
of billowings above
your touch, rowings
with me under stars,
what should be cold
feeling steep as bath
water in midsummer
and our fingers held
such ocean of swirls,
forms on silky sleeks
and running with hair
tangled in slick kelps
as seals slide unders
to murmuring waves.

*for Beth
  Aug 2015 Rainey Birthwright
gee
sometimes
beside you
when i should be sleeping
i put my ear to your mouth
and i can hear
the rhythm of your breathing
like waves that roar
inside a seashell
it keeps me awake
when all else is quiet
and i forget
about all the loves
and unloves
all the smudges i tried
to unsmudge
all the things before you
and sometimes
beside you
when i should be sleeping
i imagine myself
to be so much more than i am
i imagine myself
inside a seashell
i imagine myself
as a wave
published here: http://www.thistlemagazine.com/
last night a door opened
it was you calling for me
such a dream light entered
when you appeared so real
and the flames of set arms
lit fire to unlatched breaths
in my silent room with you
like haloes and open wings
so short was our embrace
and time ran out a window
trailing afar in shy moment
i glanced outside and saw
a moon of breathless white
satcheled in sky the noose
pressing down over black
woods and i heard the owl
moaning deep in darkness
suddenly was i half awake
alone forever bereft of love
and the dream light brought
so dearly with your coming
left with you as a door shut.
Light over the village
Is breaking my eyes
The sea is so calm
And so are the skies
The cliffs are raining
White birds, little stars
Such a lovely wee spot
To sit down and take in
There is peace all round
Now is a new beginning
What is past will come
Again to who is faithful
Light over the village
No human husband
could ever hold me.

Comforts, gathered,
began to stifle.

While he slept,
I would search.

Somewhere, my
seal's skin
was hidden.

It was just a
matter of time.
©Elisa Maria Argiro
The lights on the Welsh coastline shine
Her whiskey days are full of ink
& broken milk bottles, a grief so hidden
it’s barely there to be read as her plight
The Army took her boys & never
gave them back but she only ever
cries when she’s chopping onions at night
& reading the obituaries in the newspapers
at night she prays to Angels up on high
but never goes to Church on Sundays
not since the Vicar told her it was
all for the best & they had done their bit
the country should be proud of them
-she finds no comfort in such things
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