Seams
BY GRAY EDEN.
I remember when we ran
a stitch along the coast
where I was sand
and you were sea.
It was easy to tangle
without knowing what was
you or dune grass;
me or hijiki.
The sea is more sour than it sounds.
The salt hardened the silk.
When we went to bed,
we lay in stiff sheets.
It is the undoing that we
never learned. You try.
Approach me gently
and pull away. What to do
with an unraveled heart?
The tendrils fray and snap,
but here we are, pulling.
Gray Eden is from Pittsburgh, PA. They are the Associate Editor of Collision Literary Magazine. They are probably flossing mango out of their teeth right now.