My Water’s Gift

Each warm ripple in my bathtub drains to a wider ocean;
like Kahlo, I note, what the water gives me. My disembodied
feet will walk me up cliffs of desire, of adventure. I will fall
and break, some days. My selkies blow conch shells, eroded
by sand and sea, to blow a perfect pitch. Ill-disciplined
creatures, they colonise my willing, wayward mind. I shave
my fur, from two strong limbs, see strands float and choke
the overflow. Injured, Frida suffered more than me, told
her life more vividly. I am in awe. I'm like a quacking duck,
in comparison with her artist's voice and heart. Still, I will
create a lapping, bathhouse home for my daemon girls.
Rejoice in kicking against men's traces, learn from Frida,
live in singular colours, cascade my pain peppered with joy.