Tara Mesalik MacMahon

Oceans, Ocean

I speak midnight-earth,            
    my body needs the darkness,

though thank you for lunch,
    the way light enters a raindrop.

Boon detail—sometimes I find treasure.
    Doom detail—sometimes I find treasure,

a cypress dangles above the scree-sloped shores.            
    Again, what time do the prophets arrive?

Somewhere it’s that kind of day: the wind’s trying to blow open the door,        
    just knock, we’ve been waiting for you.        

Or magnetic north? True north? The scent of woodsmoke riding thermals—
    left to the sweet palm groves, right to blue water.      

Somehow, it’s this kind of day: the wind’s blown open the door,
    and each ocean gains each other in salt-time.  

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