By | 1 November 2017

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.

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