I hold a sea inside myself.
Turbid gallons, pressing out
against translucent membrane,
filling my skin like overripe fruit.
I groan at the seams,
but ward others off, careful lest I prick the skin
and collapse in waves of mud and wind and song.

I trap a sea inside myself.
As a child, I listened to its rage
echoed in a shell, singing against my ear.
Now, I stand, watching sodden books, shattered toys, and ruined pictures
roll in the tide, but clutch to myself this last treasure.
The storm shall not take it.
I feel the winds tearing at my throat,
and my head, full of churning blood and foam,
of salt and stinging gusts and rhythmic chorus
pounding.
And with the lightning flashing in my teeth, amidst the frantic froth,
I cleave unto my rock.