Why can’t we hear it in your voice?
The sea is a petrel song; you breathe out lead.
I speak faster
spray them with salt
flash a pebbled smile
promise mine is
a mother of pearl.
Why can’t we see it in your face?
Your skin is powdered gypsum.
I pluck my brows to fishhooks
scrape my cheeks ruddy
with synthetic sand
nightly wash the foamy swell
surging to the plughole.
Why don’t you wear it on your back?
Kinsale sports a cape.
I furl myself
in linen, greys and greens,
waive my curls to the wind
to whip into a whirlpool.
Why don’t you swim away?
You’re only treading water.
I traipse the prom
trawl sandy coves for witnesses
skim grey stones
leap forty feet into the surf.
Lynn Harding works as an editor. A member of the Dublin Writers’ Forum, she is working towards her first poetry collection.