She rode the monsoons on ships
that fit her feet like slippers.
The masts drove up and supported her limbs
like the bones of a child,
new and unbroken.

The sails enveloped her soft,
golden legs, protecting them
from the wrath of the ocean
and the wails of the sky.
Her arms were formed of broken seashells,
pale pink under stormy heavens.

A conch shell was her voice,
inhaling salt and exhaling
laments to the swirling depths.
Sea glass shone as her eyes,
her blind eyes,
cloudy and distant—

looking to the land that never arrived.
She rode the monsoons on ships
that couldn’t find their way home.