I walked across the ocean from Liberty’s island,
on top of the water.
The dolphins swam beside me, circling.
My head sleeping
while my body moved.
Sea foam tickled my bare feet.
Purple toenails like grapes, floating
above the deep blue.
I walked not knowing
only going, going.
Until I felt the pebbles of Ireland.
A fisherman dropped his catch, gasping.
He lifted his finger to point, mouth wide in wonder.
I had wings, wings of a gull. It did not seem odd.
It was not strange to me.
It gave me courage
to
ask him for food.
His wife made a fine stew with fish and carrots and
buttered potatoes. Her weathered hands working
like a cello virtuoso.
I told them of the dolphins, and they drank plenty whisky,
singing songs that made my bones remember
centuries past,
a life long ago, whispered in lyrics.
In a cottage of stone we ate by a crackling fire and
I felt the dead kings. The dead kings listened.
I fell asleep on a tattered rug. My mind traveled
high in the clouds over the ancient circles and ruins of
stone and green hills, sighing.
Time had no beginning and no end
I was not an angel on a tomb,
curly moss, covered.
I was molecules,
flesh and bone,
alive and
home, a promise kept,
a dream,
living.
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