In the beginning there was no name for the soft slippery thing
inside me — but it demanded to be held. Like a child
that could not be born it snared my first and last thoughts
each day. Soft belly under a sea urchin spine. We hunted
the ocean floor: inseparable.
Anger arrived with each new symptom: a tiny pearl for each grain
tucked beneath a joint. When I was not looking
they melted into saltwater and became
one big, briny drowning risk.
Strong riptide: do not swim.
It lived there — deep behind my eyes, until the last
doctor scooped it out into my hands and bid me
examine it.
It squirmed and squealed, that little disease
of mine, until I could not bear to hold
it anymore, and together we fled back into
the skin we both call home.
Click here to read Hannah Land on the origin of the poem.
Image: By NOAA on Unsplash, licensed under CC 2.0.