the madrigal, volume i
helen jenks and tomás clancy
by helen jenks
I long for the sea.
This land is incessant, unceasing;
dirt and soil clings to ugly, blemished skin,
creeping under nail-beds of bitter and bloodied
I tremble and quake and writhe and burn
in the toiling heat of the day-long sun,
absolve the catastrophe of this pitiful existence
and let me slink back into the brooding depths of the sea––
sleek-skinned and silver, slippery and speckled,
an enviable perfection of nature in the
foam of the fickle northern waves.
Alas, one day.