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COMING HOME

The sea is not my enemy
free as death
as unattached
as me

It is in my body.
As I breathe I become white blue
on black rock.

Like a fish
I am streaked
and featureless.
The sand is tight

thumb print, body space
I ache.
This is my place.
Glass-clear and cracked
Waves break —
I'm back.

      — Andrea Sherwood