It Rolls in from the Sea

by Nadine Worley

Tentatively stepping into the forest of our 
conversation, I find myself walking along a 
trail of timid pauses. 

Awkward leaves of laughter fall, making it 
harder to see the destination ahead.

But that’s just fine.

I prefer these feral surroundings to the standard
procedure of communication that is done in the 
sterile, trite conditions of commonplace exchange.

We need not be perfectly polite, politically correct, 
or ever so cordial.

Our dialogue, though not graceful, is filled with much 
more sincerity. 

I will take that above mediocrity any day.

by Nadine Worley

The hook pierces through muscle
Fibrous veins pumping blood 
Into nowhere

The hook gathers loose arteries

They knot together
A curtain that hangs
Over the growing gash

Built by this metal thorn

The curtain swishes
From and forth
In the steady tide

The hook tugs upward
Reeling in an all but murdered heart

“Fix it, fisherman,” whispers her unconscious sea

by Nadine Worley

Your blood seeps through the sand
Clumping in clots like kitty litter

This red tide
My Valentine’s Day gift
To the world 

Sleep always, dear

by Nadine Worley

Hands on the side

Of your bed

Reaching for you

Cold and dead

They grab you suddenly

Pulling you under

You scream

Grabbing onto the covers

Scratching, biting

Red eyes glisten

Your parents told you about monsters under your bed

Didn’t you ever listen?

by Nadine Worley

Roaches scurry to and fro

Up and down our little home

Watching, wandering

Creeping near

Hiding in things we hold so dear

One wanders around with its head detached

One “Stomp!” puts an end to its misery at last

They watch us closely

Hoping for food

Though clearly, I am not in the mood

I see one under the table

Begging me to be his waiter

That’s it! I’ve had enough

I pick up the phone

“Exterminator?”

by Nadine Worley

He has never been accepted in the ordinary world.
A lead bullet launched into the Earth’s surface, he is 
surrounded by brown, simple particles, though clearly 
not one of them. 

Then he is thrown. Thrown into a mythical sea that modern 
man no longer bothers to recognize. Filled with Olympian 
magic, this golden ocean does not offer refuge for the now
seemingly dull lead weight. He does not possess the
immortal ethereality of the gods and goddesses 
surrounding him.

Which is he?
Another of Gaia’s elements, waiting to disintegrate into
the everlasting levels of composting ground?

Waiting 
to become dirt?

Or will lead and gold melt down into a molten bucket
of liquefied supernatural as he finds that he stands just
above the earthlings he has been so incessantly forced 
to cope with?

Which is he?

He is neither.
Percy Jackson 
is a halfblood.

by Nadine Worley

She threw a rock at him

As it hit his head
He turned to her questioningly
Dizzy

She stood, mortified
Answering

“I once heard it said, “He that is without love 
amongst you, let him be cast the first stone.”

His dazed eyes 
Sent a grin 
Down to his lips

“That’s not exactly how it goes,”
He responded
Gently stepping forward

She picked up the rock
Hurling it into his hands

She darted away with a simple:
“I know.”

He turned the small boulder over
In his hands

Inscribed on the back 

was “I love you.”

by Nadine Worley 

Her heart was strung upon a thinning cord
A ballooned red kite in the sky
She was tired of earthly pains
Each day her heart pulled more tightly 
Against the string
Flying high

One day she met a boy 
With a contagious, goofy laugh
When he looked at her and grinned

Her heart fell down a notch

They walked along spring roads
That led to summer, fall, and winter
Never tiring of their journey

With each word he laid upon her lips
Each blush he caused to spread
That heart plummeted more and more
Until coming to rest 
In the girl’s hands

She looked straight up at that boy and said, 

“I am the sea, and you are the tree.
Neither came before the other, 
but we need each other to breath.

Take this heart
It’s salty and sick
You’re the only one I’ll ever trust
To protect it

Float endlessly now, darling
Be the driftwood
To my sea.”

by Nadine Worley

The sounds heard in the woods 
Are undeniable

The cry of the steed 
Beneath the headless horsemen
Carries past my ears

With the wind
Which still circles
From that century

by Nadine Worley

I will not answer the cry of the hawk
As not to barge in on its lively conversation
With the pine