Back when I was small and wide

as an ocean and the ocean died

before whales and fish came to be

the lungs and eyes of a far smaller me

 

lively whirlpools in a poisoned sea

laughter trickling through a fossil- reef

while I knew id never smile again

I was wrestling with a gruesome grief.

 

Hard as rocks on which I broke my teeth,

brittle as sweet rock sold at brighton beach

years went by and it remained the same

grit and sand between my shoulder blades-

 

as it went sticky in my mouth

I fell through a floor of disbelief,

bizarre thing, if I had only known

I could soften it with spit alone-

 

The grief went sticky in my mouth.

my tongue still longs to spit it out.

My tongue still longs to loosen, lick

and melt something that sticks like it.

 

Here you are with kidney stones,

my tongue is loathe to leave alone.

Here he came with grit in heart,

his ribs I eased and teased apart.

 

Tongue searching for a good way in,

its probing pausing and snailing.

Its Thinning itself like a worm,

its coiling like a tentacle.

 

And finally to touch with tip,

to stretch, dislodge, and try to grip

before it slips from where it grew like ovum

in your ventricle.

 

Now we are older than ourselves,

Now we may never really know quite how

the seasons melt and grow

what shifts have occurred gradually.

 

Now we have bet loss on banked loss,

But we can always suck and see

how your grief melts like a mini egg

and mine melts more like a hard toffee.

 

Look, its turning you tongue blue.

What a strangely lovely hue.

Ink of ocean, blood and earth

ink of swollen eyes and birth.

Ink is how I know myself,

ink is what I drink to health.

Ink is ours; we're lovely squids

and walnut trees, now we arent kids.

 

-#2