Jerrice J. Baptiste


All of winter is frozen wild
ocean on my side. My hands
can’t hold it, so I sneak it into
a poem, feel its blue motion
on thighs, the silk of weeds
under feet, layers of skin even
eyelashes vibrate.

In bed, a sea foam blanket
keeps warm my isolated    
toes.  They danced three
weeks ago, before the word
amputate swirled from my
doctor's mouth who has never
twirled in an ocean.

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