To the Pacific

Though I’d imagined you
as a cobalt gown in flame, 
surf unfurled from light,
I see you’re nothing
but an oversized crybaby
teething on uncut diamonds, 
slobbering white roses,
and bashing yourself against your stony crib
with the ferocity native
to those enormous and delicate individuals
who are forever trapped
in their first innocence.  

Claire Bateman | Mudlark No. 44 (2011)
Contents | The Dress of Self-Generating Sorrow