Born on the ocean.
Threw rocks at the ocean.
Shot bullets at the ocean.
Swore at the ocean.
Resented the ocean.
Fucked by the ocean.
Smoked by the ocean.
Dumped shit in the ocean.
Bodies found by the ocean.
Priests molested by the ocean.
Abused children drowned in the ocean.
Family secrets in the ocean.
Even Vikings left on the ocean.
Tore roots from the ocean.
Left the ocean.
Forgot the ocean.
I am this ocean.
Philip V. Coombs 2-3am
I’m really struck by the last line. Up until then the ocean didn’t seem to be an agent of the action, but then you named yourself as the ocean and I was flooded with images of culture and systems along with those who are hurt by those structures. How the structures are so big, and those who are hurt are individuals. And we as individuals are the building blocks of the structures. I really like this poem and its repetition draws me in with the high and low tides of the ocean.