There were twenty-seven oceans in my life,
each one accounted for until I moved to dry land.
And then I moved beside myself
an adult, jelly made firm.
But love was the trick
and the ocean was inside.
Not inside my heart, that
was pulp, and no water
forgives the messy blood within,
trying to find exactly
a pin. The ocean was
blue and soapy white, and the
roar inside my ears was supposed
to be enough.
In my heart
the ocean could be now, I think
be twenty-seven, just folded under.