She knows every inch of the dock,
every splinter, barnacle,
It is not a plank.
It is just where she walks.
And she knows how to dive,
has been doing it for years.
No easing shore side
into the wash for her,
she plunges in and is “used to it”
before others wake.
This is underworld—closets,
caves, roads, the drag
of undertow. This is where she should
live, she who in her heart is a sponge
is a sponge is a sponge.
It is laying out to dry,
the exposure to air,
the rising sun. It is her death
to be before all of you. In performance,
she will never work a room,
works the ocean floor
for all it’s worth.
Leave her uncontained. She would rather
paint kisses—watercolor running—
than be confounded by a mirage of roses
she cannot reach, without a body
protected or unprotected by skin.
3 thoughts on “Water Dancer”
aw i always envy people who have awesome writers such as you dedicating a poem for them…:( it is a really lovely writing,that i know only she could fully understand
Thank you, Joan. Sheri was a very special person (who loved the water).
Thanks Amy! Sheri would be very proud of you!!