CHURNED BY SURF TO SOFTNESS
Tether that can’t stay tight when pulled
and slackened. Each crest
pulls the throat to speech.
Every tug of wave retreating through sand
a silent sob in the chest. She needs
this yielding—of muscles,
the instinct to control—old hurt churned
by surf to softness, roomy fit
a kind of comfort. Ocean loosens
limbs to move, fluid but bound
to current’s direction. Deep streams
stir the silt, settle it in shallows.