so they don’t drift away into the giant kelp
that reaches up from the seafloor to oh-so-
gently tug them away from the rest. Seaweed
strangles, but this is the way to avoid it: hold on
even in your sleep, and you won’t slip free.
The tides crash on the rocks as I stand; the bay
smells so strongly of fish I can taste it, savor
the air chafing my cheeks as I stand looking out
at the specks I can believe are sea otters if
I squint hard enough. I feel the slippery strands slither
around my ankles. I feel the salt spray on my face. I think
no man on Mars could be as lonely as I am right now.
I tuck my hands into my hoodie, clasp them and cherish
the dull rasp of my palms, how the fingers interlace
so tightly I can pretend it’s someone else there.
–
Gretchen Rockwell is a queer poet whose work has appeared in AGNI, Cotton Xenomorph, perhappened mag, Whale Road Review, and elsewhere. Xe has two chapbooks. Gretchen enjoys writing about gender, science, space, and unusual connections. Find xer on Twitter at @daft_rockwell.