Every Breaking Wave by Marissa Glover

Every Breaking Wave

I hear you’re married now,
to a woman none of us
knew. Some girls make good
wives. I’m happy for her,
and you. Years washed away
the mess we made; your heart
moved on, like a slow-rising
river eventually finds the sea.
Good for you, even better
for me. Now you’re filled
with autumn’s fallen floating
leaves, and I’m a pirate on
open water, deliciously free
to do what I please.

“Lower your expectations,”
you said, “and you’ll never
be disappointed.” But no
matter how many boats batter
my flank, or the times I must
abandon ship instead of see
her sink, I keep wanting more,
more, ever more. It’s better
to risk drowning than never
dive in the deep.

So I set sail without a map,
across an earth that’s likely
flat, where every romance
might be titanic: Fancy dancing
in the ballroom, caviar and
champagne from the buffet—
until the unseen monster
beneath the waterline
guts the hull, threatens
to sweep us all away.

I’ve learned to savor the lull,
after the iceberg rips us
starboard, before we’re buried
in the drink. A distant refrain
comes to me on every breaking
wave: Catch and release, catch
and release. It’s always want
and strive and want and reach.

by Marissa Glover

Marissa on Facebook

Twitter: @_MarissaGlover_

Editor’s Note: The rhymes in this poem fall almost at random, yet always just at the right moment, much as waves break against the body when you most need such buoyancy.


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