Runcible Spoon

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Selkie Song (Revisited)


I woke saltless,

       broke beneath a moon-

                  rise without my chest swell,

     without scales in my teeth.


   There is no sand to fling a trail,

so I lay beside him, drunk for want

          of soaking barrel spills

      and crests that overtake me.


   Seven years past I hung my pelt.

        It swayed to the thrum of wind

   against our window. An artificial wake, he said. A rockabye squall.


Now fingerprints and dried stems dust the sill.

Now I can tie a shoe.

Now our teapot’s lost its singing cap.

Now my skin molders in the trunk.


I long for bottomless sleep:

a bed made

of kelp that reaches for light.

                                                                    And yet

                       I look up

and wonder

             how moonsand might feel

                           against a furred belly.