The Sea Caylin Capra-Thomas
I have come home. The sea says, The longer you stay away, the less you belong. I say, Is that true? And the sea says, Look at Kansas. So I drive a little while and look. I lived here once, she says. Then the land rose up and out of me, like a lover leaving. I try to imagine the sea in love. I think, tsunami, I think, monsoon. Huge and furious love—the kind better suited to mothers. The kind most lovers can't withstand. What now, she says, is left of me there? Bones, mostly. And grasses said to move in waves. This, a land of someone's longing—an entire film about a teen tornadoed to some nightmare town and tortured by song, and the whole time, all she wants is Kansas. Longs for the land the sea abandoned. Or, if you want the sea's side of things, the land that abandoned the sea. Oh, Auntie Em, Auntie Em, I don't know where to reach for anymore.
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