Landlocked: Poetry for the Stomach

Fish & Chips

I want so desperately for it to be the same.

A craving that cannot be quelled, cannot be tricked, with

pained anticipation, I drift through the waters of my mind, back

to the picnic bench by the sea. I am swimming back to

Sunday afternoons, lying in a warm patch of sun,

spread into the carpet, waiting, waiting, waiting.

My ears turn hot and throb with the crashing of waves, my fingers swollen from salty wind.

I inhale deep, splashing my lungs with malt vinegar. My mouth waters,

my eyes water, my fingertips pucker, as I am drifting back

to the picnic bench by the sea. Time slows down, waiting,


waiting, for

the crisp white paper bag, the red checkered paper trays, the

steamy pearls of fish, the crunch of buttery skin, shiny with grease.

Like setting the first foot on land after a year at sea,

like building your first callus while sprinting the rocky shoreline,

the first bite is like home. Waiting,

I am landlocked. Homesick. Hungry for a

picnic bench by the sea, always waiting.


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