You don't tell the Atlantic Ocean to behave
- Eve Ensler

On Tuesday
you washed up on my shore,
furious and thrashing like a beached whale.
When you looked at me, 
with your eyes filled with booze,
my heart sank into a memory
of a time when I still loved you.

Snapshots of you and me,
sharp and vicious,
slap me like violent waves.
As I squeeze the sand between my toes in anger
I pray for the day when thoughts of you
feel as smooth as beach glass
and no longer cut my hands.

I know you have tried to hide your
secrets deep under the ocean floor only to see them
wretched up by a wave onto the beach by morning.

How many times do I have to remind you that spitting
curse words doesn't make a sailor?
How many times do I need to tell you
that cupping your hands
over my mouth will not silence this storm?
Who but you would dare to squelch the screams of the Atlantic?

Watch now as everything you have built on
wavering grounds is swallowed whole by hungry blue mouths.
Like a child witnessing the angry whip of a wave
against his grainy castles, you stare at me,
perplexed as to how after all this time
you are just now discovering
the strength of water.