Even the weeds that grow around
a pine tree are destined for stealing
the rainwater out of the dirt itself
like a dog lapping up communion water
in a church by the sea. Let’s make it
a converted lighthouse with a pew
just wide enough for two people
not including the priest, who sits
where the light used to be, and tosses
down wafers that fall like seeds
from a pine cone, spiraling in the air.
Even a knife has aspirations, dreams
of all the cucumbers and tomatoes
it could slice. I do not want to
sharpen the blade, nor be the arm
that extends the violence. I am waiting
by the ocean for the purple flag
to be lowered, for the waves to settle
into whitecaps, I am waiting
for the undertow to pull me out
and fill my lungs. I will be buried
up to my neck, with fake sand legs
and fake sand breasts, my face
will burn in the sun if the sun
comes out today. I want the waves
to greet me, and I want no choice
but to sink beneath them. The sand
will hold me down like a mother
shielding a child in a coat closet
as a storm pelts at the windows.
I will be whole through this,
as whole as sand together can be.