By Tamarah Rockwood

My loom is loud with water.
His bouncing war legs are finally
Still. I weave into his dolorous mouth
A golden thread of trust. I feel his gut,
With my fingers and, now, he is not even curious
Why he has seagrass from my estuary woven into his long hair.

And so it goes. He falls in love with the flowers in my hair,
Drowning in my heart full of fresh water.
His brackish love is curious.
My love is a disrupting economy; and he finally
Cannot see the hull of his boat that gutted
Him to the quick. Poor man. I mouth

Beats of verse from my fleshy heart to his mouth.
I sway my hips and toss my hair
To guide this heart away from caustic, guttural
Sounds of his ennui years spent on saltwater;
How lonely his nights were. See, the moon finally
Set beneath his albatross ship; now, my fingers are curious

For his lunar skin. Curious
For my tongue, for teeth, for my mouth
To kiss his calloused hands and finally
Breathe deeply into his thinning hair
And pull the ropes of water
Out of his waterlogged gut;

Slowly, slowly I pull. Fathoms of ropes of guts
That kept his crew captured in his cabinet of curiosities,
Bound with monsters of memories from the mouth
Of the sea woven into the winds in his hair,
Chained to the granite shores of grecian waters
Until the ropes had finally

Frayed, frustrated, fatigued. Finally,
I pick up my loom to reweave his mouthful
Of mementos as he stutters and picks white hairs
From his mortal head, which is no longer curious
Whether or not his unfurled heart is gusty
Enough to trust his wife who he found at the end of all the waters;

Finally, his mouth is not full of waves, nor is he curious
Why his crab fingers crawl into my guts. I, with my loom of love
Weave golden threads into his long hair and we forget about the water, entirely.