You do not want to be a monkey,

you say.

but there are facts, I tell you

to be faced—of anthropoidea

how we got here

by way of water

that it was the sea that made us naked

not the hunt

how our descent was anti-terrestrial

—an ascent, from the silt upwards

and that our hunger was for salt

not blood. 
But there are things we prefer

to deny

the lateness of our rectitude

how defenceless we were

in our eternal infancy,

slicken and blubbery as seal cubs

that we swum before we spoke

our minds born of algae

and how we waded, heavy-bellied, maternal

through swamp-weed

to prize open shells with

the same blunt-fingered hands

you now interlace with mine

and how, when I lay them on you

wanting to lick the residual traces

of its brine

from your hairless flesh

I am in more parts animal. 
But there are things it is easier

to forget

like how deep it drew us

how far out we went—

our second nature

the ease with which one can rise

to two feet

and walk away

from the water.