Manifest Destiny

Sailors never knew
sea salt could taste
like fresh air—

photos of wives
slinking across the foam,

the Siren's hair
crunching like snow
chipped off the bow

& the glass flute of laughter
as they fall asleep
dreaming of a hearth.

Once a body is no longer owned
it becomes all silk—

the song only lasts
a second longer
than necessary,
crawling under the soul
until it's knit so loosely
no one can tell the difference

from sea to sky to skin.

The crust of seashells
is no match for a voice
skimming the water
until it reaches ears
eager to please—

falling overboard
in frantic need

& the disarray of limbs
as they smash the surface.

Ice has never been so smooth
or lamentable as in January—
men lying like fossils
under the curve of cracks
they never quite made their way

out of.