Walking on Water

Published in the printed Issue of ‘American Writers Review 2022 - The End or the Beginning?’

Walking on Water

Wouldn’t it be good

 to walk on water 

alone, 

feet grazed by the waves,

tickled by the bites 

of nosy fish.

 To leave behind 

little fires on the beach,

crab carcasses, pebbles, 

plastic bottles, bright buoys.

 You could glide for miles on the 

same sheet of water, 

only its colour changing 

according to the depths of oceans, 

the moods of the sky.

 Passing countries like floating bodies, 

it all looks peaceful from there,

the occasional warship 

in wait.

 You hop islands. It’s not 

where you want to settle. 

You already feel like one. 

Island.

 Nobody kicks you out of its 

territorial waters

for not wearing a mask, 

not filling in forms, 

nor getting tested.

 With reverence, someone 

rolls down a red carpet of neatly knitted 

purple sea-moss, 

enticing you to land.

 And you can reach 

  your family 

shore, 

a lighthouse on a rock, 

                                                         its light off.

You knock at the door 

dressed in barnacles, encrusted mussels. 

Your mojos are a sea urchin, a shark tooth you hang 

to the naked tree.

 They let you in, hug your scraggy body, 

touch your salt-wrinkled face.

They see themselves reflected 

in your vagrant eyes.

 You’re unsullied, clean, 

  you’re there, for them.

            You’ve stepped off the horizon, 

             you’ve walked miles and miles 

     on water.