by Lisa Marie Brodsky
When I was born, I divided
into pieces of dirt that
got trapped in gym shoe grooves.
Perhaps the soil mothered me.
The sea took me in
after my host walked into the
water and sank
and so I drifted for a bit,
passing algae that reached for me,
sunken shells empty of pearls.
Fish eyed me while I floated by
but I gave them
Seaweed became the hardest to avoid
because they were excitable, devilish arms
rippling around to pick up anything
to hold as their own.
Even though I knew something mothered me,
they were not it: too much sad desperation.
I finally latched onto a gill and I
felt the breathing of such a creature,
the gentle opening and closing, it rocked me
and I thought, surely, surely, this must be it.
Posted on 04/04/2006
Copyright © 2020 Lisa Marie Brodsky