Half-Seal

The red-handled razor hums
on the tub’s horizon. Faces melt
into the fog as your lungs clear.
Another year and nothing
new but seals popping their heads
from the salted bath, long-haired
creatures with flippers grazing
your body’s eelgrass. They
are familiar, from a time before
your memory went blue,
when you scraped your legs
and left the house at night,
passed out in glitter
just before dawn. Now whiskers
float and pairs of eyes wait.  
Are your only colluders myth?
You don’t doubt what you see.