Merqueer
Dreads down to her waist,
green like seaweed,
smells like bleach, chlorine,
grungy clean.
She lifts them high,
thick straight lines reaching the sky,
and sand pours out in piles.
Seashells, beach dirt, broken claws, and pearls, from her dreads to my ankles.
I shout, “Mam, I think you dropped something.”
She jerks her head to the opposing direction.
I angle towards her, “Mam, I think you want this. It is very valuable!”
Silence.
“Mam, listen! I’m trying to help you.”
Eye contact.
White ocean waves.
Wrinkled hurricane.
Lobster pout.
Dreads green like seaweed.
“I’m not a mam.”
I expected sea legs,
a slow swagger,
trips and falls or a slant at least.
I expected secrets, lullabies,
my mind to expand,
my heart to swell,
with melodic honesty,
or at least a whistle.
I expected hair long and curly like the coast;
figure eight,
pout, cheekbones, symmetry,
collarbones and breasts,
breasts and breasts,
and a stretched smile.
Chlorophyta binder.
Mollusk packer.
Fish makeup, but me too.
Our faces are both swimming, stroking, exploring, forgetting,
cool cool icy cool to the touch.
“I’m sorry, I expected.”
My land legs leave with a trip and a swagger of its own.