on emptying the ocean 

i thought i could see
the ocean falling off
the side of earth--
waterfall into space--
faucet pouring from the
forehead of the sun--
these are bullet holes--
these are salt-water
wounds-- these are
the stories we will
tell the soil when
the drought is here
& we are all
dry earth--
we'll start with 
sand box shovels & 
blue pales-- 
brother, oh brother
come down with me 
where the shore is
the crooked smirk  
of god-- laughing
at the absurdity
of two young boys
who want to empty
the ocean-- boulders
for teeth-- 
trust only
the tide pools-- 
the star fish pushing
debris through their
lips--
crack conch shells--
use sand dollars 
as prayer beads--
one handful
at a time--  that's
how you dismantle 
an ocean-- 
how you become
something vast--
like most humans
i think about
the ocean & the stars
too much--
it's a vague
attempt at augmentation--
diffusing into space--
let me be plankton 
or pollen--
you have
to commit to the 
whole thing--
starting here at the 
atlantic & moving on 
to the mediterranean--
the pacific--
all oceans are the
ocean are the 
rivers & have been
snow-- yes yes there's
blood that has been
snow
but if we pour out
the oceans 
the boats will have
to learn how to 
fly & maybe just maybe 
the moon will find
something more
productive to do
then tousling the
waves every single 
day-- maybe she'll
take up quilting or
piano-- playing
the knuckles of
buildings-- minor
key mother--
this will of course
take awhile &
i don't expect you
to stay with me--
cup your hands
& take yourself
apart in puddles
of water--
let's make marshes--
splash in the blue
rivers of our
own blood-- is
that the tigris
& the euphrates 
painting our arms
in reeds & papyrus?
is this were we first
met water & where
we decided to
take it apart?
bring your gallon
jugs & your 
blue recycling barrels 
i want to make raw
the ocean floor--
parched ship wrecks &
tired giant squids 
strewn out like
party streamers--
schools of tuna 
attempting to inhale
air-- this is for
their own good--
for the water
to sink back into
the dirt-- back into
our skin-- let us
be oceans without
them-- without 
the moon tugging at
us with her 
needle & thread--
let us bring our
penance to
the tide pools 
where our seven-year-old
bodies will finally
go to sleep & 
be mischievous--
bring driftwood
& sunday morning
church bells-- cracked
as they speak--
we will stand at the  
edge & say 
we have
done it-- we have
done it-- we 
have spilled the 
whole ocean
with our hands--