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"salt-ritual of the bay"

Tideglass and torn kelp bundle—  

The children marked the hem of dusk with thumbprints  

of salt on their foreheads. No chant, just breathing—  

just the pink lungs of sea wind  

carving hunger into the rocks.

An egret flinched sideways toward the margin,  

white as a scrape of chalk on an old map.  

Fishermen let their lines tangle. They believed  

in knots over harpoons. The surf, meanwhile,  

spoke only in bruises.

By the time the moon broke open its mouth,  

the children were asleep.  

One cradled a bone.

One dreamed of knives.