his child by the shore, by the rocks, jutties striking the sea, against the rocks, he watches her there, hair wild like her mother’s, she prefers it that way
he does not want her to lose the spittle, i do not want you to forget what it means to be angry and full of fists and an impossible sense of urgency, of there’s something wrong with all this. he wants her to have these things, this beach, this sound of the shore, the taste of the air caressing your lips, the warm tug of a forgiving sun that laps the sweat of your skin.
he wants this for her as well, the fury of the night, the sense of inexplicable loss, of having lost something vital and precious and that this life was for finding it again. the mad search for something to protect, to find something worthy, to be worthy.
he prefers her that way, wild all the more to temper but never tame, all the more to keep the anger up and the spittle.