A stretch of road beside the sea
has followed me every time I’ve left it,
in moon tracks on the blackness
that re-appear behind faraway spires,
in the sound of rocks rolling into the foam
that sound so much like stilettos
striking cobblestone, a familiar drumline
that left me shaken just yesterday
as I remembered that mine is a life
of sea-borders, a world encased by
water that somehow tracks me down
even in the dreams where you are waiting
at the station, carrying a sheet of A4
paper with a stranger’s name—my own—
written in curling cursive, the color of ocean
when stars are rising behind the clouds. 


By Heidi Turner