Of King Tides

Semidiurnal Tide Cycle, December 24, 2022

When the tide surges
to its highest mark—smashing
over the brae, the city
swaying,
we gather to feel
its muscle, lash
of salt spray.

I could die
in that howling surf—its ice blue
throat calling.

An ancient anger triggered—

me once again bowed,
steadied only by the pebble of my pulse.

Then the sea reverses, receding
with the sun. Leaving
an exposure
of sea stars, slugs, mussels, the miniscule
living
unseen.

And then it is night.

I had lost
the shortness
of a breathing day.

Consumed by the high
and low,
by what tugs
at the dark loins of the mind—

the sea lifting its soaked skirts
to reveal our own naked hunger,

and again,

the magnificence of it crowning,
broadcasting a vision of humanity
drowning.