Anna Maria
Kristin Dashiell



You are home to a slippery sun
that falls beneath the ocean line
and pulls itself back to surface each morning.
It bubbles up light, rosy and warm,
before it breaks the water.
You are home;

home to shifting shades of turquoise,
weathered waves that sometimes darken,
and timid tides that lick the sand –
a cleansing foam leaves your shores
with seashells looking to be discovered.
You are home;

home to the shriek of a gull,
an eardrum rattler that always startles,
the unpredictable call begging for scraps.
We’ll all admit your song is tuneless and pained,
but it is home, and,
you are home;

home to inconsolable hurricanes,
those wind-beaten travelers spewing rain,
overflowing into streets with new currents.
We don’t expect them to stay long –
but they always return, because,
you are home;

home to my father’s father’s father,
to generations of island-spiked blood.
We’re all drunk on a citrus wine.
We are noisy with your praise.
Still, here’s my bed passed your flood lines.
You are home.

About the author:
Kristin Dashiell is a poet from the Tampa Bay area. She is an MFA candidate at Sewanee: The University of the South, and her work has previously appeared in Off the Coast Literary Journal.