When you were ten or so do you recall 
the blinding sting and hush of weary gulls?

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