She never said
what it cost to hold the world.

Just straightened her back
when it sagged,
tightened the thread
when it frayed,
made dinner
even when her hands shook.

Her spine—
a tide chart.
Each vertebra
marked by waves
she never let break.

You wouldn’t know it
to look at her—
how many storms
she swallowed.

How many times
she flooded
and held
anyway.

Some call it strength.
But strength is easy
when it’s loud.

What she has
is deeper.
Saltwater kind.
Old as the moon
and just as faithful.

Ryan Stone