Becoming the Sea

When she fell
the sea washed all the salt from her hair
and drained the spices from her body.
Her limbs were long and they looked lost
as the waves moved them, up and down,
but they did not look broken;
it was her heart alone that was in shambles

The truth is
that she did not fall.
She was pushed
not with hands, not with a temper lost
but with a glance alone
and eyes filled to their brims with a variation on love
like she was once filled with salt and spices.

Her name was on his lips
as she lost the solid ground beneath her feet,
his hands could almost feel her warmth,
his mouth was wet with her remembered taste,
salt and spice…
He sang her name like grains of salt dissolving
or like spices burned then boiled, her name
chimed in increments of song: 'Eu-ry-di-ce…'

It is known what happened to the minstrel,
how he was doomed to perish in ecstasy
but the tale has little words for her, knows not
how her hair was washed to brine, how
her breath pooled as foam into the waves
and how her eyes dyed all the seas in their fashion,
made them deep and far and wide,
untamable by nature

This is the failing of the storytellers,
their lost tales;
she is still in the sea, is in the water:
when you look out upon the raging torrents
you can see what was once her body,
waves melting to curves melting to horizon;
a lyre lying broken and freed from its strings,
a lyre now holding a different note.