from walking into the monsoon waves,
naked,
cane in hand, hair like fire catching in the salt sea-spray storm —
everything had already been
lost,
there was nothing left to lose — her salt tears joined the salt sea.
Remembering a last birthday, before the storms came, before
the smoke and thunder, before the sky reflected the earth’s
darkness —
before, even, the last of the hummingbirds disappeared —
the flickering candles on the cake fighting for air
in the subdued festivities, uncertainty weighing
heavy
on every illuminated face, each breath waiting to be the last.
She closed her eyes against the oncoming rush, closed
them against the storm, wrapped herself in the warmth
of the candle flames, and she made a
wish
for tomorrow, flung out her arms to embrace the sea in
prayer,
instinct and belief intertwined one and the same,
sacrificing wisdom for madness, for the wisdom of
madness
and she opened her mouth wide and swallowed the sea
whole —
One gulp was all it took, engulfed it within herself,
engulfed by the sea that was the storm that was
hope
riding on the sea winds whistling to the heart of the world,
to the downed trees and the drowned lands,
in the spotlight of the moon, she used to say,
a dog is no longer a wolf, she said,
the freedom of the wild that has been taken, you cannot
reclaim.
And her cane lay at the bottom of the ocean, excess.
You broke it, now you must own it.
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