Mary Walker Graham (Boston, USA): "At St. Baume"

It was a dimple of comfort:
sleeping long months,
forgetting. I must have dreamed

the ocean and its shore—
a chaos of gulls as the craft
pushed off: galleons

of strong arms without heads.
I leaned heavy toward shelter,
filling my own sails.

Now the smell of damp hair,
crusts of secretions. Something iron
that makes teeth clench

and the walls grow mold.
It was my own blood, finally.
When I woke I remembered

those last circles— how
the she-wolf turns and turns
before collapsing on stone.

© Mary Walker Graham 2007