Julia Park Tracey is a poet, author and journalist. Her poetry has appeared most recently in Soul-Lit, Not Very Quiet, Autumn House Review, Coffee People, and Daphne. Honors include Poet Laureate of Alameda, Calif., California, Frederick C. Fallon Award for poetry, and a San Francisco Foundation Award grant. She lives in the low Sierras, California.
You rise motherless from the creamy sea
to lie among the brambles,
your velvet skin, languid,
your mouth bruised by kisses,
playing the melancholy with your unkempt friends,
your perfect face without blemish,
the light in your eyes some nameless hue.
You whisper Daddy like the whisper of a scythe,
conceal your mirth with ease.
You are ardent, warm as Aegean waters.
Your song has been forgotten
but I still see you
at that moment when you emerged from the wave.
Poetry in this post: © Julia Park Tracey
Published with the permission of Julia Park Tracey