'froth on the palm of my hand', by Skinner
after Christina Rossetti
The froth of the ocean is warmer to the touch than the still water
It crackles against my palm and leaves behind its
residue when receding back in on itself.
A timid beast, afraid I’ll hold it too gently so it seeps
through the gaps between my fingers—
but warm to the touch, inviting me to its savagery.
Each rock I chuck seems to anger it.
Using its eroded weaponry against its turmoil,
I can’t seem to capture the stillness beyond what fizzles
in front of me.
I wish I could swim.
The ocean doesn’t want to be forgiving, but I bless its
sins.
It laps at my ankles and wets my shoes.
Yet I keep dipping in my toes.
Blueish black fading into docile greys, lighter than the
night sky but jealous of the stars within it:
only being able to replicate each star as a blurry faded
smudge against its face.
I love each mark.
It speaks to the winds, punching my face, spitting salt
into my eyes.
Even grabbing at my shirt and shoving it back against
my freezing skin,
trying to pin me against the backdrop of lights, futile
attempts to push me further away from it—yet it seems
stagnant to my endurance.
I don’t want to leave.
It’s warm to the touch. Inviting me into its savagery.