A Poem in Dialog with The Mercies

As the water pulls away,

I am back, again, on land.

I leave my work on the wrack line.

It is not who I am.

My feet hold the shape of this place,

its rock and sand,

high grasses and gnarled tree roots.

My eyes open with ease here,

and they close with knowing.

This is where my skin speaks back,

to the sun and the cold,

in bumps and shivers and glassy beads of sweat.

This is where I rest,

and this is where I burn,

where my body meets the air and heat,

and I become flame.

What would the water say,

I wonder,

at seeing me like this?

Come again,

it would whisper,

when you are ready to sink.