You take me to see the seals

spinning sleek and fast

like windchimes.
Tell me the myth of the selkie,

the women who pour out of the sea

like molten lava.
Dragging their skins behind them,

staying on shore only long enough

to leave a mark

that the surf will wash away.
My mother the ocean,

the rock, the hurricane.
The flame hair a beacon,

a lighthouse sighing –

‘do not forget me’.
Our bodies are weapons

that have been used against us.
But find your way back to the sea,

and you can learn to own

your own moorings.