Sea-salt
Read The Reflector x MRU Write Club in the list of writer portfolios or the print issue |
Izzy Hurcum, Guest Writer |
Alien terrain for one of stardust, who worships the ocean like an old world god. Sea-salt wind stings on my exposed skin, water choppy for the pacific swim. Letting the waves carry me back to the shore as I roll onto grey sandbeds. Seeking the solace in the Star of the Sea, continued love leaves me nonplussed.
Mother of Pearl and Father of Coral, I too discussed as odd, carrying on lineage. Oyster shells clicking together jammed into pockets, when the weather fair it’s so clear blue, pale like your eyes. Yet so quick to flip, turbulent grey like mine.
But now I’m landlocked, with fossilized creatures hidden in the dirt, seabed dried out millions of years ago. Learning to cope, living without the cry of the gulls. Shooting gin, chased down by sorrow, no longer protected by the nacre, little pearl all on her own. So I go dumb and numb.
One day I’ll be called back to the bay. The seaweed will wind up and down my limbs, anchoring this weary vessel in place, and as the waves crash, sun streaming down I’ll be home.
Izzy Hurcum is a guest writer and a member of the MRU Write Club 2024-2025.
