Ocean in Glass

I try to talk about it and it comes out small,

like I’m describing a storm

using teaspoons.

༄

You ask, “How are you, really?”

and my mouth offers the usual coins:

Fine, busy, tired, you know.

Cheap currency.

༄

Meanwhile there’s an ocean in my chest

salt and undertow,

whole weather systems

and I’m holding it

in a thin glass body

that keeps pretending it won’t crack.

༄

I rinse a cup at the sink

and watch the water spiral down

like it’s going somewhere important.

I envy that.

༄

Words should be nets,

But mine have holes

big enough for everything to escape.

I say “sad”

When I mean

a long blue ache with teeth.

༄

I say “love”

and it sounds like a greeting card,

But in me it’s messy,

it’s wet hair,

it’s staying,

It’s leaving anyway.

༄

Sometimes I think language is a shoreline

and my feelings are past it,

already out where depth begins.

༄

So I swallow.

So I smile.

And the glass holds

for now,

with all that sea inside,

still sloshing, still unsaid.