on the beach

so let’s say i ride this giant seahorse into the ocean…
i will cross paths with a red balloon which reminds me
of the city where i was born and it will lilt and bob
over the waves so whimsically that there will be
no way for me to develop my gills. and, after that --

the waters’ wills cannot do much to convince me
of my being seaworthy and this giant seahorse will
sense something amiss and throw me as soon
as i loose my grip. not much for bridles, not much for
sympathy, this giant seahorse whinnies and grimaces.
he says, “i wanted to have your children.”

i will be able to catch the sun, in a fraction of a second,
glowing on the other side of that red balloon, so i will
curse myself for ever having laid eyes on the mirror-ball
ocean, for being so easily tempted by gigantic curlicue
hippocampus, for screaming jubilant into each crest
however many hundreds of thousands of fathoms
it took me from land:

there are no red balloons, under there and no cities
to be born in. there is no sun and no waves upon which
it could dance. were i to climb aback and ride this giant seahorse
into the ocean, i would not be able to say goodbye.



-Iris Appelquist