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Be gentler still, unquiet sea; again she sees her city days. She only ever saves what memories are not too heavy to carry. The pigeons want to know is she happy or does she ache? How many of her days is she still in the unquiet sea? Just buy the ticket overseas already; forsake those days on planes and the ache of some lady saying, "that carry-on looks heavy; I miss carrying my things so gently."
No matter how angry the waters, the vague sea looks quiet from the sky. And she watches those faraway lives with such envy. It's all vague; she remembers wanting to partake in life without miscarrying and a heavy body to bury, but she took it up on her shoulders to carry every ocean. She sighs and it rains. Be gentler still, unquiet sea. She misses carrying herself softly. Hazel J. Hall is a writer and poet powered by caffeine and insulin. Right now, she is pursuing an English degree while working on her first novel. More of Hazel's work can be found in Bending Genres, Vocivia Magazine, and CLOVES Literary, with other pieces forthcoming or visible at her site, hazeljhall.com. Comments are closed.
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