small thoughts on the sea

by Savannah Jensen


to know

my body: the perpetual scent of

gardenia, blood, the white sea;


to put

your tongue to my crevices

is to taste the imprint


of large bodies


heaving, dulling my nos

like water against hot sand.


i go to dark beaches

to occupy a space


where unfeeling is a thing


that floats in the ether

like a kite with the longest string––


blown about

by my desperate running


i tug and tug, but my hands

are just so small


my bones like driftwood,

too light to steady me.


i never learned

how to use my mouth


so i let my limbs be rearranged

in the empty space


traded one coast for another


but it’s just one more button,

discarded shirt, stranded bra

on the rug––


it’s a ‘smile’ and click

and i’m shuttered

on this balcony with its salted



in another timeline i’d topple over

the railing


splinter at the edge of this cragged

canyon, just to escape


the man with the camera

and his oil-spill tongue.


i’m not pretty, i never was

but i wonder


if i will always see myself

as some small


shivering weed


at the edge of this coastal road,

plucked and preened


sun-spotted, that

bends away from the light


and open palms;


rather, i close like an eyelid

against the sun,


long days and things


close the soft center of my body

like a mollusk’s


against swooping gulls

and my own rotting flesh;


i cling here,

at the edge of this foaming water


tethered by my longing


for the bottom

of my own breath


Savannah Jensen is a poet and freelance writer from Sonoma County, California. She has a BA in English from UCLA and has work published in Pink Plastic House literary journal. When she’s not writing, she enjoys baking, making music, and photographing the people and places she loves.

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