the unwrapped bandages,
until so worn they wash the dirt,
muddy down the arms, down the legs,
past caring how heavy the weight,
how burst the sore.
The air is still.
Heavy to walk through,
push through, breathe through.
Fan blades clog with a soft whirring of your death,
always about to come into the room,
always about to blow through.
From the jetty, I blink signals of light
through the night as you sleep.
Last night you slept
in eye light and wave rhythm.
On the half sandbar
between beach and village,
there is sea in every direction.
As the tide rises,
one browned, thin-shouldered boy
bolsters his castle with rocks,
pats it down.
His mother watches,
hoping her boy will be the one
to hold the ocean back.
Donna Munro moved to the ocean and is still searching for one grain of sand with her name on it. She writes with frankness and compassion. She helps with distribution of Cape Cod Poetry Review, is and has been a member of the Cape Cod Poetry Group, the Steeple Street Poets and the Casa Benediction Poets. An emerging poet, her poems have been or are forthcoming in Atomic: a journal of short poetry, Aleola Journal of Art and Poetry and Door Is A Jar Magazine.