IN THE BLACK
He visits the beachfront every night
and shouts her name at the ireful sea. He stands at the rock-strewn coastline,
his tall frame stooped and shaking
as the frigid tides break before him.
He laments the woman who haunts him—
The Archer, a living ghost.
His heartache is a fury that its vessel cannot hold;
passion erupts from deep chambers, guttural—
clashing with the salty, bitter wind. With every heave of his broad chest,
the waves too, heave.
The waves, they swell and snarl,
violent in their boldness.
Each night he stands at the edge of his country,
at the edge of his sanity, and curses her name until the sea threatens to rise up
and consume him. He advances upon the charge,
but all the white horses fall back and fade.
He casts his dull, unblinking eyes to the Heavens—
The Heavens that he denies exist.
Hanging in the black, his moon glares brightly upon him.
“I hate you,” says the moon with her voice.
“And I, you,” answers the man,
as she retreats behind the passing shrouds of grey.
© 2019 Kindra M. Austin