I Have Never Seen The Sea

I have never touched the sea – never,
except if you count the number of times i have
written it into life like a jilted lover – i should probably stop that.
My sea is sometimes blue, sometimes green, sometimes black,
sometimes she froths on her lips – the shore,
in a rage against something in the sky – the moon, maybe,
that pulls her tides to kiss my feet with silver light.

There are times when my sea is Olokun – the goddess
of black depths; the despot that holds the chains of each shore
within the corals of her nails and the reefs of her breast.
When she vomits a confused crustacean, a gift to my touching feet,
she expects my sacrifice to be nothing short of a swim in her blood – the sea.
I do not know how to swim, or surf, or bob, or splatter,
but i can sink, which i think is better.
I can watch ancient sea turtles stare at the bleached sand
and teach the wisdom of fishes to man
but i have never touched the sea. I have said it again.

One day i will journey to Lagos,
find an empty beach if i can, lay a blanket, a book,
a bottle of soda and some crackers then i will watch the tides,
dancing prophets, lovers and conch shell seekers
and I may come to see the beauty that i write of the sea,
as it run between my feet and sings me a lullaby to sleep.