Winter 1958 • Vol. XX No. 1 PoetryJanuary 1, 1958 |


I am a woman become a sea: So at a breath do you bring me The swelling tide, the slip Slide, and wash of the moon: The sea-anemone of lip Engulfs the falling room. A fish and monocle eye, Pores that blossom like plates, Flatten upon me where I lie Lost and lovely as lakes. You call me witch of the sea: You say my ways are oiled With dead men who forgot to flee My salt and watery toils Yet they are men and can go free: I am a woman become a sea.

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