Holding Water

All through the month
of wind
the beach crackles
in shades of ice,
and tossed between them
sea glass

back and forth. Into the sea,
and out, until the glass
takes on this shape:
a wave of wind
blue, undulating,
shapeshifting as the ice

of a glacier. We walk
the beach, icy
hands reaching for a flash
of blue. Sea glass
now in palm. Like holding
the name of the wind

now glassy still. Like holding
warm ice. Quiet sea.
Hushed wind.

Muscle and Wing

This beach of black rock
and blue mussels
lightened this morning
by a fresh snow.
Look—one wave of snow lifts—
no, it’s a seagull

lifting her body on
a sea wind, gull
body floating, looking down
for tips of mussels.
Too deep. She waits for the tide
to eat slices of snow—

there—the water melting
this one rock, this one snowy
patch of mud. She lands.
Does she know worry, this seagull?
Does she remember that all along
they are there? Those mussels

that feed her sharp beak,
these flakes of soft meat,
even in winter.

Self-Portrait in Blue

For your bones, I would choose
deep indigo
the rich resin of inner bark
the home layer of ocean.
You see? No one will stop you
saying cerulean

is the color of your skin, the color
you taste on cerulean
mornings by the sea
your paddle dipping to each indigo
breath. Do you see it yet?
The ocean

blue of your veins, your salty smell
the rising ocean
of your ribcage, your belly.
How can you not love your cerulean
tongue? And yes, your hands
on the paddle, indigo

veins rising, as the night skin
comes down, indigo too,
on this cerulean sea.

What We Hold

We’ve trained our eyes to see
any dark wave
as the spine of whale
the shining head of a seal.
And this morning, a dark shape—!
Ah, just a piece of timber

riding the water. I can’t stop watching
that limb of timber.
Will it eventually beach?
Will it hide in a wave?
Snag the tender underside of a boat?
They too think it’s a seal,

think they are safe. Aren’t all of us
drawn to the gray seal
body of this sea?
Sometimes, watching with a timbre
of hope—the big wild!
And sometimes with waves

of what if: waves that hold
for each of us,
both seal and timber.

Breathing in the Tongass

Each afternoon I walk
   through a wave
of trees along a creek
   where an estuary
meets condos,
   stores, a long rainy

street. Each day, I hope
   for a rain
of needles from the spruce
   for a wave
of rich green scent to weave
   into the estuary

of my hair. I breathe in
   this estuary
of moss, and old man’s beard
   raining
from the ancient trees.
   I feel a building wave

of relief. I’m a wave
   breaking fresh.
A rainy estuary, brimming.

Reaching Wild

You can see
     the tribe
of us anywhere there is a beach.
     Bowing
low, to pick up a sleek shell.
     Gathering

a curl of aqua glass,
     a leaf of water gathered
in a palm.
     How to explain this tribal
need to lift, to search,
     to bow

to the wild?
     Like a small bow
of a ship reaching wild,
     we gather
wind into a touchstone.
     You can see our tribe

anywhere there is a gathering of sea.
     A bowing of wind.
A tribe of black stones.

•

Emily Wall © 2022

 Click title to download microchap

Cover collage by JanK

•

Sky

Even if you have nothing
you can gather this.

In the evening stay out a little longer.
There will be a moment when

the sky will pour gold over the hills, into the deep
valley, over your own shoulders.

If you sit, your lap will be filled
with light. As if a mother has taken

your body, which she loves, and dipped it
in a gold bath, then slipped

a robe of pale orange over your head.
Everywhere you look, there is richness.

The dry hills are now a temple.
Your own hands now remember how much

they are loved. Each evening, I will be here
to remind you, of this.

Seed 

Soup

It's ok to pray to me.
You're not going to blaspheme
the creator, or my son.

Some men will tell you
to pray to a woman,
to anyone but Him.

I don't sit on a throne. I don't
start or stop the rain. I don't
cause a girl to look over her shoulder.

But one night, I did birth
a beautiful boy. I did hold a first breath
in my hands. You mothers

know this. I do stop by
his house, on Saturday nights with a pot
of soup, and sometimes, advice.

I'm here now, watching your hands
light that prayer. I do sometimes
remind him to listen, when those who

birth the world, are asking.

♦

Emily Wall © 2018

Nominated for Pushcart Prize

With Reverence

Lemon

Your body: plump, juicy,
sweetandsour, sits on the counter
between my hands
and I can see all the sharp teeth
of the world poised to take a bite.

I know someday you’ll want this.

We are here, after all,
to be tasted, to seed the world
to unpeel our thick skins for someone we love
or think we do. I don’t want to stop this, really,
except that I do

Teething

Her father keeps checking
for teeth, running his finger along

her gums, a gold miner
hand in the stream, looking

for treasure. When I hook
my fingers in her hard

pink mouth I’m looking for it
to stay empty, to assure myself

no buds of sharp rock are rising
to change this soft mouth, this

fish that rises every morning
to the lure of my breasts

and latches me firmly to this
wild land called love

Newborns

Newborns are almost beings
almost larvae, almost able
to see, meeting the world
with their mouths, open.

Newborns are wild grass
pliable, delicious, plucked
out of the womb in a sting of separation
and rubbed between our hands.
Newborns are rain

passing over our bodies
dousing us, baptizing us
always moving, always away
before we can see the shape

of them. Wings sprout, seeds
disperse, water lifts back into
the cloud layer, as we reach
as we try to find a name for these

shifters. Now our hands - shape
beat - hold air, a wing
a breeze. A sweet, damp smell.

After the Vasectomy

Mary and Gabriel

She must have received the news
of her pregnancy with fear

and sadness. What mother wants
her child to be lofted to such greatness

he becomes a sacrifice? Instead
she must have longed for him

to simply be excellent
with his hands. To be known around town

as someone to go to with your broken
furniture. Not someone to go to

with your broken body,
your broken life.

Would it have been wrong for her
to wish him back down

to an ordinary life in which perhaps
he could have been happy?

Sleeping, Nursing

I touch the pearl
     of your face. Your eyelids shiver
while your mouth works
     my nipple, in long strokes.
The muscles in your jaw are stronger
     than any muscle in my body.
In this early morning light
     I dive into the ocean of you
eyes closed, breath held
     my fingers travelling along
searching for the opening
     in this closed shell of hope:
you will always be here.
     I will always be able to open you.