Marco
'Ailina on Poetry & Prose : May 1st, 2008
The bottle rolled from her fingertips into the sea, turned into envy-green folds of glass and foam, drew farther and farther from the shore like a prodigal son from his father’s guiding side.
The sand for her feet, the sun for her skin, and the wind–to encircle, envelope, to hold, to keep all her parts sewn up like the seams of a paper sail that would not see the greater latitude lines.
One possession her own, cut from her heart, from her hand, from the hem of her thin linen gown and wrapped up in a scroll.
A prayer that the words would not drown, but survive at the breast of the heaving-green sea, carried abroad with a name and the hour seized at the moment the ink stained the page.
And she counted the days in waiting, in faith, for the answering cry to return on the crown of a white noonday tide.
