On The Jetty

Lashed to the ruined seawall where the slap of small waves beats
On the channel buoy bell, and the flat-bellied clouds stride so low
That their shadows soothe the sea and the far fields into faded silence,
The woman, banded in white satin, assesses the tide's slow advance,
Deaf to the thrum of engines as the plumed boats skid on the sound.
Her home star tints her downed forearms with dust and helium dreams,
Pulling her face upward to the bright light, commanding her to listen
To the plash of the warming waves slipping through the sea grass,
To the gulls' caws and the echoed snap of a cormorant's slate wings.
Her bare legs extend and open -- some new naiad, pedicured and waxed,
A smooth, buffed goddess -- Hair by Christophe, Body by Cher --
Lounging like an abandoned Rodin open to the sea and sanding wind,
Tempting some long drowned Poseidon to rise from his bed of shells,
And, embracing, take her down to his weedy sheets, his mattress of kelp,
Teaching, within an instant, one final time, the songs that women keened,
When the Gods walked among us as equals, as lovers and brothers in arms.