A Tuesday evening,
The tide is out, the stones are green,
Awkward hellos, bumping into walls.
You and me in black,
Walking slow, sipping, sighing.
Sit with me on a bench while I tell you
Why not.
Why we can’t keep keeping on,
Why we shouldn’t.
You’ll only half listen,
Hear the bits that make sense,
Drop the rest in the bin with your Fanta can.
Come back to me tomorrow,
Like nothing ever happened.
Believe you’ll be asleep in my bed by Thursday,
Repeat myself when you find that you’re not.
How do we break up when we were never together?
Does something that never started ever get to stop?

I know you long for the sea
to dive in it free
like an old bird set up in cage
has her longed chance to flee.

But my beloved,
To some people still the tides come,
the shore rests and the ocean lies
in someone's eyes.

To me it's yours.

From my new book, Poems of Ancient Rome and Greece, available in paperback on Amazon and Barnes & Noble, as well as eBook on Kindle, Nook, and Apple Books:  https://www.amazon.com/Poems-Ancient-Greece-Christopher-Saitta/dp/B0DS6933HB?ref=astauthor_dp  

My mother the sea,
She woke my sandy eyes,
Just to tell me she had to leave,
Draw past the markets where the fish are sun-dried,
Snarled by the coral-rough hands of divers deep.

My mother the sea,
She left her running tab
Of the grocer’s choicest greens,
Thumbed the velamentous rinds and spiny scarola,
Her xylem and phloem are the slow moving cruciferousness of a breeze.

My mother the sea,
Charwoman of tides,
Who dips and delves upon her knees,
Who scrubs her brothel-coves with chamber lye,
Cyprian mistress of the salt-stained sheets.

I have looked for you, mother,
A scugnizzo amid the striped awnings of the marketplace
~ like sails to the sky ~
Where the fishmongers hawk their pride
Of conch, cavallo, and black sea bream.

I have looked for you, mother,
Walked sun-forged along the boardwalk,
Amid the neon-mascara of signs,
Hand-in-hand with only the ladyfingers of salt and vinegar fries,
Toward the crisp syllabub of pebbles and sand.

A beach is window-warmth spread free, cosmopolitan,
The longeur of eyes crushed in the glass-dust of cities.
And in the sputtering of the frosted spume of tides,
Held broken seashells in my hands like broken needles,
Heard the pump-click of the ventilator through your mask of sand.

My mother the sea,
A naked convalescent,
Whose ever-turnings have taken
A turn for the worse.
Who will know her by her death, who but me?

I know the power of the rising tide
For beneath my feet rests the shifting sands of time
Always ebbing and flowing the water dost erode
Each wave tugging and pulling
The tiny grains betwixt my toes

As the surf rises my foundations wither
Casting evil eye to swollen sea my thoughts swell bitter
When my balance is interrupted by systematic crashes
Gradually displacing and replacing
My position along its axis

Until finally I am interred within that salty tomb
Buried under heavy weight of time ne’er to be exhumed
Less the tide decide to recede and expose
The monument to a man
Who had once claimed to know