She makes coffee,
drains the pot.
Feels sick. A sign. A sign?
She recalls the lip-biting grin,
the double nod,
imagines them quickened
to a piscean reality.
She turns her mind, willfully,
and still it returns, returns
to that dark pool.
She sleeps and hears waves.
She works and hears little whale calls.
She is a gate.
She is a cove.
She is dumb as a sea cave,
waiting to be startled
by the life within
or the blood emerging.
Small Poems de Terre 