The slap of tide and sand: a coven
of fingers on a freckled face. The
sky: an open mouth moving across
bedroom darkness. The landscape: a
blessing of decent regard.
The knuckle of distance where sea meets
sky: an aching elbow, a hymn sung out
of cartilage, an uneven gait, hip ripe with
memory of bullets. More potent than: a
rubbery caul, a piece of ivory cloth, a scrawl
of black ink claiming home in this imaginary place.
Or, like always, there is: the yell
of the tide, the gaped lip of the dune,
and the teeth that catch against
Natasha Burge is a psychogeographer living in the Arabian Gulf region. She is the writer-in-residence at the Qal’at al-Bahrain Museum and her writing has appeared in Pithead Chapel, Pidgeonholes, The Smart Set, and Jersey Devil Press, among others. www.natashaburge.com
See another poem by Natasha in 5.3