What will you give me this morning, Ocean?

What discarded corner of civilization

will you choke from your bowels

and spit at my feet as I stroll

along the island headboard of your bed?

Will it be a cork, a crate, a bottle, or a bit of shell

wrapped in debris and weeds from the sea,

a genial expression of affection from you to me?

Don’t think for a moment you have me fooled, Ocean.

I know you yearn for my return, a lover spurned,

in desperation tendering pandering gifts at my feet.

I suspect you expect to lull me into complacency

with promises of peace you cannot keep.

You squish the sand with tickling kisses between my toes,

tossing a frothy foam of seawater in the throes

and embraces of exaggerated orgasmic ecstasy.

How oddly subservient you are, Ocean.

As if to await my pleasure, yet I know

you would sweetly drown me

if you had but half a chance and oh,

how sadly you would cry in remorse,

For me and all the countless dead awaiting redress,

and rebirth in your womb. You have no choice

my sweet, mysterious, murderous mothering mistress.