I have no moorings in your sea
and yet I live there anyway.
I long to wash ashore, be tossed
on dry and sturdy land long past
the sight of you. Yet here we are
sharing currents and the scar
that brands and bonds us. Who knows where
we're going? Makeshift answers fence
wild horizons, lost expanse,
with words, their simulated shore.
As pain crescendoes, still we hold,
no balm but salt and numbing cold.
No buoy rides these endless waves,
but love, its gash, and us its slaves.
If you have any comments on this poem, Siham Karami would be
pleased to hear from you.