Sometimes you can choke to death on the saltwater taste of Hope.
Watch as the ocean mingles into your
bloodstream,
turns the rivulets on your wrist from
crimson to turquoise,
feasts on the pathways of the heart and leaves them empty-handed.
Sometimes the hurt scars; flips cuts inside out, bruises outside in.
Turns the blue and red under your skin
into a flag of patriotism,
carves out fifty sketches of suffering like
a star-spangled petition,
like a coat of arms, like the endless returns of the ocean.

There are a thousand reflections in
the water;
which one belongs to you? Which one
belongs to Hope?