My body screams,
a root-bound plant.
Away from the computer screen,
at the docks,
I see the water,
I see the mooring posts, James Baldwin.
I say the sea bird names I like:
wren, gull, sandpiper, heron.
I tuck my ears into my new wool cap
from the hat shop.
Across the channel,
a man walks curled over into the wind.
From this distance, he looks small.
I watch him,
knowing I’ll never know his name,
and cup him into my coat.
When they come into the room,
she is naked under the covers, laughing.
She gives them water to drink from her mouth,
like a bird.
She’s a breach in time,
a clap in the air,
off of leaves.
*Originally published in Wild Culture.
Julia Travers is a writer and artist in Virginia. She writes poetry, fiction, and news stories. Find her work with OnBeing, The Journal of Wild Culture, The Mindfulness Bell, and other publications. See more at writingsbyjt.wordpress.com.