80 Poems in 80 Days: 10

***

The current that makes the ocean
makes the marrow of my bones
makes my eyes slate with
anger blue with mystery
green with shock or inspiration
or confused with love
or dull silver with the sound
of voices of the choir
pushing against fluid
temples, pulling up
the liquid nails.
If I unlock
my sequined wrists
it is not a bargain
or a cry for help
it is just an end
like and unlike
many others
just a bag of bones
and ocean returning
to balance the tides.