The Next Time I Stand at the Edge
Amanda Coleman White
When my toes just brush
that line where land meets brine,
I hope I’m not caught in small drama;
Instead remembering we are all bodies
of water choosing stagnation or flow,
some unaware and dying of thirst,
others drowning in the shallow end.
Water is the magnet I’m pulled toward,
one drop expanding my head
like porous sea sponge.
The buzzing in my brain
like a conch shell,
the ocean always there, personal
as a white noise machine.
I can never break its surface,
always hovering just below
the membrane of liquid and air.
When I try holding onto
a moment, I’m willing you
to stay with me here
turning to ice, perhaps
frozen together.
We’ve carved small rivulets
from ourselves, streams flowing
in directions we cannot follow.
But in the end all is one,
the water grandmother bathed in
now the cup I drink,
what I pour down the drain
soon filling a grandchild’s kettle.
We consume one another,
dying to be reborn.
