I caught your hair weaving
between the squid’s arms,
I saw your eye (like stone, like foil,
like mother-of-pearl)
flash in the sea-softened beams
which once bore sail.

I won’t make your mistake,
you to whom the tanker’s hull
is another black sail. I’ll wait
by the concrete, won’t look
between the boards, I’ll keep my
eyes on the ground.

Brooke Grasberger is a freelance writer and editor with a BA in English and History. She lives between New England and Beirut, and her website can be found here:

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