The Word for Ocean

by Melina Papadopoulos

Daniel Lerman

I have written poems, lined them with flowers, run the dirt of a dirge through my fingers. I’ve spoken of what turns to dust and then gathers it unseen. I’ve looked to the skies the dead leave behind: One wears the moon like a musky perfume, Another hides stars behind its storm.

In this room, lilies parse sunlight from a white vase. I search for the bluest one, bright and reverent, one that burns into the darkness.

In this room, my mother relearned the word for ocean. She found it by pointing to the glass of water on her desk. That day, I questioned what it means to be a body of water. Who mends you when you run out of land to break into yourself? What fills and empties you?

In the spring, I hold my mother’s arm and guide her from the car to visit my grandma’s grave. Our arms are empty of flowers. We have a sky to leave behind, and it is heavy with storm.

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Melina Papadopoulos lives in Ohio and works as an editor. Her work has appeared in Booth, Plume Poetry, and Rattle, among others. She has 3 birds.