Someday They Will Ask Me
Nobody taught me how to swim. I’m not saying
it’s someone’s fault, but when a girl goes down
no one’s less surprised than me at the watery
fingers that nape her neck.
The ocean is this kind of hierarchy. Voiceless
at the black sand bottom, resort to banging
rocks against the skulls of those who came
before. I am trying to grow scales, but
it’s them or gills and I can’t stop drowning
in my sleep. The moon rabbit promised to
pound me herbs, but she turned her face
toward the cinnamon tree. He’s never coming.
I saw his teeth clamped on a serpent’s tail.
They weren’t fighting, if you know what I mean.
The beds are made of poisoned anemones,
the pillows of sand-silt pearls.
Everybody knows it’s hard to love a sea god —
never pays the water bills, always stiffs you with
the wrong-pronged fork, can’t fathom one mile
from one step across broken-glass beaches.
But this water witch is the worst of the lot.
Strangle me with a length of kelpen hair, chloroform
me with a closed-mouth mussel. Break the surface
of the waves so I don’t have to see it’s my own damn face.
Image taken with phone at Jewel Box
Words written at Jewel Box
Time Taken less than 10 minutes. I have a busy day.
Brain on moving my ass, gratitude, mermaids, rabbits