Glass Poetry Press

Volume Six Issue One

William Reichard


Someday I will show these We left the sea so long ago we can't remember it now, how we dragged ourselves onto shore, across the land, learned to walk, and ran toward mountains, plains, anywhere away from water. We live on the land but keep the sea inside. Our bodies flow with salty red water. Our eyes bend the light to allow us to see. Inside each ear is a tiny ocean, the seat of balance and gravity. If these waters are disturbed we suffer. A feeling of floating through a world unmoored. It only takes a microscopic crystal and we're undone. I spent a summer like that, held hostage by the moon. My sisters, who work in nursing homes, report that during full moons, inhibitions disappear and the paralyzed walk, the silent talk, and love is not out of the question. I was spinning and I couldn't stop. One morning the world righted itself and the moon's pale gravity no longer held. I had to remember how to stand again, how to move across the land.