In the Pure

She says she doesn’t
know love. But in her drift
on the sea, there is a love of sand
and iron. There is a love of the dead.

She won’t come to you like this.
A slip of the whirlpool and she’s gone
and who knows what she reads in
sea beds in that moment in the dry?

She is
the woman at the shore,
the man at her feet
and the waiting.

She is
what you ask for when you
say mum – and then more –
for a love of the dead
keeps her floating and her arms
stand open – and it’s
your face in her palms
you can’t stand – but she
loves you.

She doesn’t know
in the drift of her sea
where you’ll be
in the dry.

She knows the iron
will hold you back.
She trusts the iron
will keep you by.

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