- Vol. 04
- Chapter 08
When flung on sand I did not know fins intended becoming feet. How strange those bones and toes that Tempest bruised.
Healing is at first crawling. Nights taught what legs were for and I learned sleep in the day.
Dreaming then was certainly a sea change. Coral kept calling, knowing I’d be back, that the earth was just dirt. Cities especially brought back that fact.
By then I was employed, under the table in more ways than one, and only finding a field to stand in returned waves of reverie.
Wind-song, hair lifted adrift in dancing currents— the salt on my face was such a surprise with its little memory of greater liquid.
There must be an ocean inside still, I thought; there must be a web between fingers floating before horizons.
Through such blue, Life’s lessons held a message And my purpose was to sing of it.
Tell of your journey, siren, stray sailors whispered, but no sheets were satin enough, no skin sibilant as those fathoms out.
Rocks brought me down again, pocket by pocket, from ship’s profile to anchor with albatross-grace.
Then I cast off, stripping underneath, reclaiming iridescent gills and home’s giddy laughter bubbling epochs of emerald all of the way.