Sea Change

by Gaetan Sgro
Annals of Internal Medicine

I remember ribbons upon ribbons rippling
in every dreamable direction and shade
of light and sea and sky.

I so much more than remember.
Can still feel the earth's firmness
underneath my shoulder blades
my fingers and toes outstretching
like scarps only testing the bay.

I still see through an afternoon haze
those low toasted hills in the distance.
Still, when I want to, inhabit
the cool evening scent of dried grasses.

I have grown more than tired of men
bragging how blue the Pacific.

I used to press the eyepieces so firmly
against my sockets, I earned marks
watching the swells lumber in.

Not once did I ask where the wind went.
How I got myself buried in mountains
boon-docked and weightless.

All my life I've watched light
playing games on the surface.
Will close my eyes tonight, and wake
with sea textures
creased upon my skin

while darker currents
turn inside me, auguring
ominous endings.

All those years in Monterey—
I wouldn't know where to begin.