in the summers
underwater,
i grew little gills
sometimes also,
fins.
my mother
would urge me
onto land for
sandwiches,
she would cock
her head sideways
on a beach, on a
deck.
“are you coming
in?” I’d yell
through a slur
of wet lips.
“maybe later”
she’d say “come
eat.”
mother never
grew gills like me.
she never lost
herself in
underwater
flips,
weightless.
& if she did
come in,
I would loom,
ominous
my hair clouded
jellyfish-like
she’d say “okay,
I see you. go play.
I don’t want
my hair getting wet.”
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This was fantastic, I could imagine everything as a story, reminiscing and the jellyfish-hair really gave a special feeling as an image.
I dig this. Some of the most ripe moments come from the smallest occurrences. Your line about the hair floating, ominous, captures that perfectly, I think–implies that something greater is at work here. Cheers!
I’m delighted that you picked out that subtle part of the piece. Thanks for reading…!
Superior!!!!
This is brilliant! I love your poetry.
Reblogged this on Finding Joy in the Ordinary.