Imaginary Oceans

And if the neap tides of my beauty
sadden him, I cannot help it:
I hang high, the waxy night light
in his rainy room. I watch him watching,
see his shadow play remake me, things
he understands (a tomboy huntress, say,
or soft fat cow, invented waters that
I do not love). I only am. My shining,
borrowed, that must wane, shows how
possession is plain lunatic.
So let him cross to me some night,
bathe in my deserts, sift my brittle sands,
not load me with his names,
like longing: lake of sorrows,
bay of rainbows, sea of storms.

About the author

Jason Warren is an Australian waif adopted by London. He's a neurologist and sometime poet.

Read the full bio

Issue 23 · November 2015

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