Truman

 I live so close to sea that I could choose to drown, drop an ankle-anchor and float beneath high-tide

I've seen my sister's flesh entangled in Winger-Sheek shards of slate-like  geologies

(It's how my mom pronounced it, then with sis, denounced it)
In life, I can't go to the Ocean,
I'm allergic to the sun, and the sun
(Being inescapable at sea)

I've nearly died from deer-flies, allergies, and sun-
Hospitalized, I vomit endlessly from its exposure with migraines since childhood
Hospitalized blisters ripping me spineless, bloody, worker's compensation beneath shady discretion
(Even childhood fell me into a Portugese Man-of-war)

When I was five, I dreamed of the "Greek Beach" on the Cape
I pulled the plug and watched the entire ocean suck all that I'd hate
At the time I hadn't understood why
-With ships and wrecks and dirt and death
My mother should drown down the suction of seduction

Since then, I've packed for the beach
Endlessly
NEVER allowed back
Traveled to the ocean only to be rejected

Distracted by seafood dives that never serve me
Flooded in timeshares
Pruned by private perverts

Crashing on jagged Cape beaches that sharply last until mutilation
Wave-pools for surfing; instead drowning children who get sucked into the filter until blood fills in

Packing.  Eternally.  Packing... Going nowhere, drowning on land; anchored by regret