by David Anson Lee

They called it fear of the sea,
but it was gravity’s memory:
ancient water tugging at my spine
like a mourning song.

I knelt at the shore,
sand grinding into my palms,
listening for the ocean’s confession:
a rumble like bones, a whisper like breath.

Waves rolled in with white teeth:
hungry for footprints, names, futures.
I almost believed water could swallow fear,
like sand drinking wine into its thick mouth.

The horizon quivered with promise,
silver, salt, and dread.
I stepped forward—deliberate, slow—
until the tide licked my ankles
and I felt again the pulse of everything
I’d ever tried to outrun.

David Anson Lee is a physician, philosopher, and poet born on the Pine Ridge Indian Reservation. He lives in Texas. His work explores memory, landscape, and the quiet intersections of medicine, identity, and place, and has appeared in multiple literary journals.