Dark water muffled the world
above and you
breathed your first mouthful
of salt.
A heavy weight,
you were dead
as debris,
dead arms,
dead legs,
a sun-bleached shell.
Entangled, congealed, floating
a mass of serpentine
green, with flecks of brown and red
under you went and surged up,
born again
hair slick, thick
with slime
crowned with coiled strands.
You couldn’t swim, of course, you couldn’t yet
(useless ribbon limbs.)
A cold-pressed bruise,
in a shade of purple-blue
and scraped knees.
Your first taste of life’s cruelty.
So tired
you were,
of each frothing rise,
each wave that crashed
and smashed you as easily
as a doll.
You grasped
Daddy’s hand,
for fear of the rush, the roar,
of a thousand oars.
And yes you were
afraid
of each colossal wave.
But still, you went into the fray,
battling against the ocean spray.
What links you to her now?
An empty shell,
pressed to your ear.
The sea beckons,
you hesitate,
but warm to its silence,
its cold embrace
Plunge, dive, crash,
abandon yourself.
The salt can sting,
it can enter the wound.
Aphrodite you emerge,
born from foam,
rising, you ride the waves home.
~ A. M Crawford