Mother
I dove into the ocean and found my mother there.
She was the gentle wash of waves,
the sparkle of shells, the striated sand,
the stingrays, the garibaldi, the leopard sharks
in their camouflage.
Mother said ”swim,” and I ducked under
the waves finning downward for a few
eternities, ears equalized, eyes open, no
air no breath no need to inhale.
Lost in a spiral of a conch I forgot
the noise and pollution and heat of life,
my own black smoke, my own burning trash briefly
extinguished until finally I came up, head breaking
the surface with a gasp that was almost a scream.
As I walk on the beach feeling the sand
between my toes, music blaring from a restaurant cut by
the yelps of children at play, a gentle smile
ignites my face because I still hear mother’s
whispers in my ear.
