Some days are fuck me beautiful. They rise all cool and misty with the moon hanging pale in the damp pale sky and your heart's all gooey with it. When I'm in love with the world or want to be I'm out the house before the sun rises and head to my mother father sister brother ocean, boots on and scarf round my neck, though my thumping blood's heating me just fine and I like the way my skin prickles with the cold, because it's closer to my lover the world.

It doesn't matter how small the waves are, the matter is the salt kissing my skin and making my gills straighten out from when they were curled and dry from the week doing otherwise. But luckily when I'm out it's fun, and though my muscles aren't working too well these days that's temporarily a misplaced hurt when I'm smiling down the line.

It's meant to be cold midwinter but the sun comes out and shakes the water from the air and my skin and the salt dries on my skin, hitchhiking with me through the merry day, and merry it is.

On these days the sun doesn't proper warm the world til midday, but oh by all the goddesses when it does it does and my blood rushes around like it's just excited to be pumping. It's a pottering day and a cleaning day and a lying on the front deck listening to music day, bones all liquid and my eyebrows stiff with salt and the birds forgetting I'm there and getting a fright as they fly low thruogh the creepers and the shrubs and see me there all lanquid and in love with the world.

And then I'm crying coz I've only got twenty odd years of this left baby and it's a sad thing and a bitter thing and a sweet thing indeed.

Twenty-odd Years

some days
are fuck me beautiful

they rise
cool and misty
moon hanging pale
in a damp pale sky

and your heart—
it’s all gooey with it

when I’m in love with the world
or want to be
I’m out the door
before sunrise
heading to my
motherfatherbrothersister
ocean

boots on
scarf wound
but it’s not the layers
it’s the thumping blood
warming me
my skin prickling with the cold
closer
to my lover
the world

doesn’t matter
how small the waves are
what matters
is salt
kissing skin
uncurling the gills
that dried and folded
through the weekday grit

and when I’m out
it’s fun
muscles complaining
but softly
as if they know
today isn’t for hurt

it’s meant to be midwinter
cold
but the sun shows up
shakes the water
from the air
from my skin
and leaves salt
like a thumbprint
hitchhiking with me
through the merry day

and merry it is

the sun doesn’t
really
warm the world
till midday
but oh
by all the goddesses
when it does
it does

my blood races
like it’s thrilled
just to be

it’s a pottering day
a cleaning day
a lying-on-the-deck
music-in-the-air
bones-all-liquid day

eyebrows stiff with salt
birds forgetting I’m there
startled mid-flight
through the creepers
and low shrubs
when they find me
languid
in love
with the world

and then
I’m crying

because
I’ve only got
twenty-odd years
of this left

baby—

and it’s
a sad thing
a bitter thing
a sweet
sweet
thing
indeed.