Saline

I’m walking a salty path
leading to the thunderhead
and darkening day
the blow of ocean
sticks to my face
rests in my tangled hair
but the ocean keeps on breathing
my hair, twirls upon itself
and weaves a bramble
—gazing upon the looming slate
it peers down on the lowly me
a wave rushes up my leg
the reminder that there is nothing
I control
it wouldn’t make a
difference to the ferocious tide
and angry sky, anyway
the cloud belches
because it wants me to
think it rude
I look up and shake my head
at the adolescent, clam-colored sky
it dips low and spits directly
in my eye
of all places for a drop to land
rain comes running across
the ocean
and for a moment I believe
it recognizes my spirit and wants
to see it crumble—
my arms raised defiantly
I yell to the impending storm
to do its worst
of course, that’s up to the
weather entirely
it doesn’t care whether I’m
impressed or afraid
the thunderhead booms and tells
me to go inside and quit
being so dramatic
that storm has nerve
but who am I to argue?
I turn in a huff, untangling my
hair with my fingers—
wiping saline from my face