(after “Punta del Este Pantoum” by Chip Livingston)
By Kathryn Chupp
Over the split-open earth, wind, water, I wait to hear
You — Who must be in power, in groaning oceans.
I lay in my seaside cave, the slivered entrance behind me.
Out there, the waves chase the sand: rejector yet pursued.
I listen to their roar and for You, asking
“breach this cave” — little crab shell, prepared to be opened.
Show up in crashing waves and power-filled potency. I’m asking
for the dramatic ways I expect You to appear in Creation.
But there are only more crashes and no You. Then, a moment to heed
a low whisper, close like salt on the skin. Over the tides
the sound of You, “Here I AM, in the breezes that uncover you.”
All along, there You were — in the whisper, the daily and nightly.
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