Lincoln City

poem

Photo by Jo Heubeck & Domi Pfenninger on Unsplash

In the morning, we chose a narrow, ghostly drag due west to the coast along a ghostly road slick with swerves and December rain,

looming landslides, silent sinkholes, morning’s lurid lack of light. On the shoreline, another round of rain blended with icy Pacific mists, stabbed my skin like the stings of metallic bees; trauma of waters churning mythic turbulence, each rock- crash like the lash of a whip demanding we keep back, stay away.

Blinded by winds that blasted my every breath, the stench of dead kelp stirs into my clothes, my skin, my hair, even now. A most malignant unwelcoming, a recurring assault that demands to be relived, inside of which I’ve never felt more alive.

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