Wandering Waters
by Jack Slinkman
My soul knows not
the angst that lies in her wake.
The restless child tosses and turns,
threatening to blanket me
in her waves.
White caps collapse
as the teeth of the sea foam –
the briny beast’s rabid gnash
promises to tear me
apart.
I am
but a paper boat
dipped in an ink black sea.
The wind coats her finger in liquid permanent
and mistakes my pages for an expedition map.
As she travels, my creases become wet with anxiety –
from the paperback peaks to origami ridge,
the whispering waters follow the cartographer
leaving a trail of glossy negative
to colonize my stern exterior.
It is only a rough draft –
I should marvel at
your handiwork –
Why do I fear it?
Still my soul –
Smooth this wrinkled blue
into a sheet of frosted glass.
Snap away my fears,
shape them into an icy mosaic
glazed over in your peace.
You hold these waters
in the hollow of your hand
and still
my soul runs
turbulent.
Are you not
bigger than my
current afflictions?
O Master Artisan – you who
fashioned the sky into a navy cardigan,
buttoned the moon and stars into place,
and hemmed the heavens at the mountains.
The waves rise and fall
at the request of the moon –
Can I not do the same?
