The Drowned Gods of the Outer Banks

“…how every wave is a hand, and every hand pulls you home.”

Here, the ocean kneels to no one.

It takes in time with the tides,

leaving only driftwood bones

and the rusted teeth of anchors

half-buried in sand.

The wind carries the voices

of sailors who never learned

the language of storms.

They speak now through gulls,

through the torn sails of clouds,

through the hush before lightning splits the horizon.

Dunes rise like ancient shoulders,

bowing to the weather’s hunger.

They are the last witnesses

to ships swallowed whole—

their masts snapping like prayers

that reached the wrong gods.

Walk out far enough at low tide

and the sea will offer you gifts—

a coin darkened to coral,

a shard of blue glass smoothed to forgiveness.

Take nothing.

The drowned gods keep a ledger.

And when the storm comes,

you will know why they call this place

the Graveyard of the Atlantic—

how beauty and grief

wear the same salt crown,

how every wave is a hand,

and every hand pulls you home.