I hear myself sighing wow. Wow
across years I’ve marveled
at my great-grandmother’s face
emerging from solution
in my own features. The sea
quiets its respiration for me,
smacks wow. Wow in foam, in surf,
in shudder of shore-break. I… I… if
Mama did not come from here—:
how could she not? If I know
how to read…—: am I not
countenanced—: alive?—: as the sea;
as the child in my sight who lies flat on his belly
on a slab of stone overlooking the Atlantic in Almadie.
Young poet, pensive, chin in hand, I was a girl, listening
like you for song. I sang myself in round.
A set. A lull. A set. Like breathing
wow. Wow.