We open the book as wide as my daughter’s smile
upon seeing the illustration of the Selkie woman.
I am the reader of this book; you are the woman
in the illustration. You love your fisherman husband.
Upon seeing the illustration of the Selkie woman,
we trace the outline of the sealskin, smooth as paper.
In the illustration, you love your fisherman husband.
You have forgotten your birth-skin behind the chimney stone.
We trace the outline of the sealskin, smooth. As paper is
turning beneath our fingers, we watch her stare into sea-darkness.
You have forgotten your birth-skin. Behind the chimney stone,
your skin shrinks from mortar and dust; it craves seafoam.
Turning beneath our fingers, we watch her stare into sea-darkness.
Her children pull her skirt with dirty fingers, step on her bare foot.
Her skin shrinks from mortar and dust; it craves seafoam.
The kitchen table is solid and still. Her stomach heaves.
Her children pull her skirt with dirty fingers, step on her bare foot.
Skin scrapes against stone. You stop the story and ask,
“The kitchen table is solid, and still her stomach heaves?”
I am the woman reading this story. In my palm is an answer.
Skin scrapes against stone. You stop the story and ask
about my life before. Was I land-locked or at sea?
I am the woman reading this story in my palm. Is an answer
there? A long line of fortune and memories–tarnished gold–
about my life before I was land-locked. At sea,
the darkness pushes not just against but down.
There is a long line of fortune. But memories tarnish gold
and are crushed like quartz and feldspar by the waves
the darkness pushes. Not just against, but down
the page we go, into the crest of the story.
Crushed like quartz and feldspar by the waves,
the woman turns like a glass bottle. Saline drops mar
the page. We go into the crest of the story.
Her daughter moves the stone, pulls skin from ash.
The woman turns. A glass bottle, saline, drops. “Mar,
it means the sea, remember? Like your name.” Will
my daughter move the stone, pull skin from ash?
We ride the wave from crest to break, close the cover.
It means the sea remembers, like your name will.
We open the book as wide as my daughter’s smile.
