6:4: “He always knew he’d drown”, by Liz Bourke

6:4: “He always knew he’d drown”, by Liz Bourke
You came unknowing
when the rising tide
ground slow among the stones.

Moonlight tangled in your hair;
in my bones.
We clasped hands and, gasping,
together drowned in air.

You bleed and need
so much.
I never meant seduction.
Never meant this
murder with a touch.

The sea birthed me.
Now what I am,
you know—
and still you can’t let go.

This flesh, the sand, the stones;
the shore—
the prison of your bones.

No more.

The stones shelve,
falling cold, dark, steep.
I lead you down
paths of the ocean-deep
and you let me.

You always knew you’d drown.


Liz Bourke was born in Dublin, Ireland, where she still resides. When not suffering from attacks of poetry and prose, she studies ancient history at Trinity College.

“He always knew he’d drown” is the second of a pair poems I wrote after some not-entirely-idle musing on what it means to love and live with the sea, and what it might mean to have one’s feelings reciprocated by it.



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