BRINE & BRUTE

Indigo beast, frail shore.
Slant rocks siphon measures of tide, their
dark seaweed combed lock by lock
by white fingers of jealous wave —
a cold & fickle love, the sea.

She rushes blue in an open-mouthed kiss,
tongues barnacles, adorns and
scorns the cliffside, breaks it
over & under & again.

Sea foam on red stone, frilled & laced as
a bride left at the altar. She — sea —
thunders beneath an indifferent sky,
beneath pine-trunks thin as pinions,

sap running from every semi-precious scar.
She falls through my fingers:
only salt for a heart, boneless, full-blooded,
a whorled, unknowable flesh.

About the Author
MARY McCOLLEY is a writer and poet originally from Maine. She has wandered and worked for a number of years in France, Thailand, and Palestine. Her pastimes include killing lobsters and selling street art.