My mother has always loved the ocean.
One night I asked her why, and her answer stole into my brain,
Nestled into a nook and forged a home there.
When I’m by the coast, I feel alive.
Like some sort of cosmic accent is imparting; this is where I belong,
Like we are the daughters of sirens you couldn’t capture,
Like we share the conscience of the canyons and the craters and the waves.
Chalk cliffs overhang deep caverns burrowed covertly into white walls,
Inscriptions uncovered sing the lives of fallen pirates.
There are millions of stories in the ocean’s stormy waters,
Stories she is unwilling to give up lest they be defaced in the hands of humans,
Like oil rigs, like rubbish dumps, like fishing, like hunting,
We have broken our trust with her.
No longer does she break her waves on our welcoming shores,
For now, she protects her precious sharks and unturned treasures,
For we do not deserve them.
I think back to my mother, to how she so deeply loves what once loved us,
And her answer rings in my mind:
“For the ocean was once where we belonged.”
