The ocean has a purpose.
Saying The past is the past is useless.
I don’t have much, but a body has its benefits.
Smooth roll of the surf.
Empty space in a trough.
The ocean opens and shuts, like a window.
The thing is, I’ve only ever seen it.
Once I put my toes in a wave.
Chaos as it inhaled.
But that’s it.
One way or the other, things overflow.
What things?
If you want something, fight for it.
I was told to hear myself before I speak.
You can’t just take a voice once it’s there.
Whatever the ocean takes, it gives back.
Right?
Irony has its uses, but lays flat like a jellyfish.
Reminds people to pay attention.
Describing the ocean is useless.
Most people already know how to disappear.
JC Bouchard's poetry is forthcoming in CAROUSEL, and has appeared in PRISM international, The Puritan, and Arc. His first book of poems and photographs, Let This Be The End Of Me, was published by Hybrid Heaven Press in spring 2018. (author photo credit: Syd Lazarus)