There is a relic drowned;
A beach, some distant December.
We go there in treacherous weather
We go under foul circumstance
We go half hoping the salt air will fill her lungs
and bloom new life in her chest.
She’d gasp and resurface from under the current,
her thinner body would float to the top
amongst the foam and the brine.
She’d open her eyes and see the world again,
outside of a seashell I put my ear against,
and hearing only white noise,
and that which lies therein.
Her own heart of darkness:
the unbearable volume of living.
-Lola Stansbury-Jones© (Originally published in Ink in Thirds Magazine, Vol. 4 Issue 1).
Lola Stansbury-Jones 