This morning, hope stirred me
from my slumber and has led me
here: the bay’s storied stone.
Here. Where frigid breath meets
North Sea’s gelid spit, where history tastes of
salt and glass and sweat, where
mistress of gull and garden was
once muscular, strong – mainland’s limb reaching into
the sea, carved by tide…
Orphaned
from her body. Now: anthology
of unmendability, alone, spurning the bully’s phlegm
from emaciated face, and calling
Look at me.
Look how strong I am.
Amanda Ellison
