Poetry: Ocean Scars, by Jack J

those ocean grey eyes of yours staring
into the space between us, screaming
into this horizonless black
of ocean and sky cut
into one, like daisies
in a chain,
like survivors –
that zealous rain, coming in strong enough and at the right angle to capsize us. the type of rain to drench
you through your overcoat on ruined commute home. when you are sprayed by the garden hose and it
stings so you scrunch up your face and bring up your hands to the glassy blade of water so that it goes
away. we scrunch up our faces and it (that sting) doesn’t go away. and if we live we are cut into one, like
daisy chains, or survivors. these things, like kintsugi, I tell you, do not have scars, for these things are too
beautiful to have ever bled.
you, as hell swims through these waves,
give her your oar and she swallows
(her gulp: the crack of thunder) and you decide
the next best thing is to
hold on
tight
and as hell rides out and into the night and
we sit in the eye of the storm, yours flicker up
and something that wasn’t there goes away – meadow
green, those eyes of yours, bright and
beautifully pronounced, and, in the calmest stretch of water yet it
is realised, how beautiful everything could be
from here, these ocean scars.
did you ever find those patches of daisies
and pluck them from their flowerbeds
to weave into a bittersweet chain
or crown of dead living thing?
I did
and as hell rides out and into the night
your eyes escape again and so
I join you in looking at those red callused hands, the lines on your palm and the joints are so white against
the dirt. thinking: what have we done? your hands, with those strong but elegant fingers, the knuckles
pronounced but by no means bony. we are moved through the long eb and flow – her push and pull –
bringing us out and, without a moment’s warning, back in. when you were small and moved up and down
in the bath as the water waved across the length, the long eb and flow – the push and the pull – and you
felt it in your stomach and then you would wait, sitting still in the bath, and the water would settle.
thinking: will the ocean, like a bath’s water, ever settle?
and though I still have my oar,
as the storm comes in again, and the rain heavier and fiercer
than before, there is no use anymore. though I tried and
I did

and as hell rides out and into the night
we are smaller than ever before.
she takes us so high, and we crash back down,
the whitecaps turn clear in our
little yellow boat, the waves shatter as we
interrupt their course.
our grandma loved to watch
choppy ocean on
stormy night
do you think
she is watching us
now?
a wave comes over us.
there is no use anymore.
I look up to you.
wave crashes like cold hell over us
filling our little yellow boat.
I look up to you, cold and wet
like a stray dog with bits of seaweed
knotted into fur and sand encrusted
around the eyes, and
you are not there anymore.