lost

alki beach is crowded today. shirtless men
are softened by the sun as they
play volleyball and
children race to the edge of the ocean,
squealing as puget sound waters
lick their toes. at the beach’s center, however,
there is a stillness.
a woman faces the shore, her long black hair and
red paisley-print pants ruffled by
the impassioned breeze,
her black crop top exposing a finely wrinkled stomach.
a baby is on her hip, pointing and giggling at seagulls
as she smokes the cigarette that was gifted by
kind strangers.
she stands, immobilized in time.

salon musings

the hairdresser combs through my hair with long fingers,
diagnosing hair as dry as uncooked, squid ink pasta.
so, what would you like me to do today?
*
at my suggestion, the doctor blocks my reflection in the mirror
and tugs at her hair, smooth like arctic waters–
your hair is different than mine.
she mutters in a language i don’t understand, and says:
my hair is good for bobs, straight. your hair too curly. not good.
**
curly, wavy hair mimics water ripples and
brings breath to a still ocean
that the world covets with prayer because
stillness is peace, calm, manageable–

but fuck that bullshit.
peace is also life, life is breath–
with curly, wavy ripples crowning our heads
we are the ocean’s messengers
bringing the world breath.

underwater dreaming

she floats just beneath the ocean’s waves
her brown hair spread like a scallop seashell.
her gaze, fixed on the profile of a white sun
that disturbed the surrounding blue-green waters
with flecks of white light, surrendered
to a warmth that blanketed her face.
unaware of what lies above,
she lifts her hand and breaks the ocean
feels the sun’s kiss–an eruption of heat
that envelops her hand.

the mermaid said
she discovered peace.