The Language of Water

I ride the foam of horses;
their wet manes stream
between my fingertips. The erogenous
salt smell licks the sharp air.
Nostrils spread, the brown lips open into
even teeth, like shiny pearls, nibble
the nape of my neck

as I let the water embrace
my naked mermaid desire
and whisper to me
as it slides into hidden crevices
and whorls around the rising rocks
that lie against the continental spine.
The water rolls me gently
back and forth as the tides shift
around me and ripples spread
in starfish light.
I am a ragged piece of silk
as seaweed flows like hair in glad ribbons
to weave a pink collage of shells,
around the sleeping ribs of ships.

My breath
blows up full moons
as dolphins flash
in arcs of light
then undulate around me, their mouths
nipple, seek around flesh
that slides against the slippery dance
and the music of migrating whales
scrapes up and down the open sound.
Their cries for mating,
tragic and haunting as the loons,
grow hoarse in the foggy, stumbling light
their exquisite agony
held fast
then dropped into liquid night.
Its tongues speak in schoes,
spread in languid consonant and vowels
then ankel and lap
in intricate and slowing circles
in the supple
language of water.

-- Genine Hanns