Inland Sea

July 23 2018

I forgot its salt.

Its caustic brine

its cloying sating stickiness.

A glistening bead, like mercury

but red.

I am an inland sea, confined to flesh.

And, like water, seek my level

pour myself out

conform to the shape

of whatever contains me.

The ocean seems eternal,

lapping at the shore

with hypnotic regularity.

Contains multitudes

we rarely see.

While I am mortal

and singular;

a solid-seeming form, who bleeds

so much more

than I thought possible.

This poem started with the first drop of blood from a nosebleed. It was inspired by this poem, which appeared in the July 23 2018 edition of The New Yorker:

The Pond

By Charles Rafferty

The world is in short supply. This field of goldenrod will never be enough, and the ocean feels suddenly crossable. In every apple an orchard waits, but who has twenty years to cultivate it? Above our house, the contrails of the jets have turned into actual clouds. The rain they promise is another lie. Meanwhile, the taste of my blood implies that I am rusting, that a broken machine lies half-submerged in the pond I carry with me.