Photo by Matthew Tracy
 

The Whaler's Wife

Were my voice the hollow echo of the conch shell's breathless song,
or the undulating, roaring tune of water beating down;
if the tide of my blood ebbed, as the waves you always pine,
would your eyes forget the sea, and begin to mirror mine?

Could it be the salty vapor that eludes the stormy sea,
or the blood of hunted beast that calls you far away from me?
Is the screech of gulls ecstatic, or trial's pain romantic?
Can I pain you in such a way; to make your love fanatic?

One day I hope it drains you, with retreat your only choice,
and I only hope that when it does, you'll finally seek my voice.
Then, I, as if an undertow, will pull you in my wake,
where blood and brine can disappear, my beauty, you partake.