Amy Watkins
is a poet and visual artist who lives with her husband and daughter in Orlando, Florida. Her poems have recently appeared in The Blue Collar Review, The Pedestal, and The Louisville Review, which nominated one of her poems for a 2006 Pushcart Prize. She finds it more difficult to write the farther she gets from the ocean.
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Pantoum of Two Seas
I lifted my salty fingers to my tongue,
the foreign sea colder than the Atlantic.
I thought I would not write another poem.
The waves lapped our legs at mid-calf,
the foreign sea colder than the Atlantic,
the only ocean I had known.
The waves lapped our legs at mid-calf
and we filled a plastic bottle with sand and water.
The ocean I had known,
the words I had written were almost forgotten.
We filled a plastic bottle with sand and water.
Desire was an ache like the press of cold stones.
The poems I had written were almost forgotten
and no new lines took their place.
Desire was an ache like the press of cold stones
under our bare feet. The waves receded
and no new lines took their place
on the rocky sand.
Over our bare feet, the waves receded.
I didn’t think of what would happen next.
On the rocky sand,
our thoughts were all desire.
I didn’t think of what would happen next.
Strangers laughed at us kissing in the open.
Our thoughts were all desire
for each other and the moment that was passing:
strangers laughing at us kissing in the open,
carrying seawater home in a plastic bottle.
For each other and the moment that was passing,
I thought I would not write another poem.
We carried seawater home in a plastic bottle.
I lifted my salty fingers to my tongue.
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