Back Into The Sea We Will Go
The month before your mother
Will die is the busiest month,
Trying to say as much as possible
While she can hear the least.
She will die from some syndrome,
Buried in the deep of her bones
And sinew and fabric, etched into
Her pallid, ghastly genetics—
That glassy, resplendent rigging
That was always so intent on raveling.
That tiniest of astrolabes, pointing
Her flesh onward to grave algaed rocks.
She was a producer for the Discovery
Channel, before she cut off all
Of her hair, in a statement after its era,
And long before some devolution
Turned her genius into primordial
Something—She would know the word.
She had pieced together shows about
Creatures walking out of the ocean,
But that was long before her brain
Crawled out of its shell and slithered
Back into the seaweed waters
Of the shifting, amoeba-rich Pacific.
And when she drowns in her own drool
and slobber and ruminations, you will no longer
Sleep on your back as you always had.
You, sixteen, gawky, and a sometime
Alcoholic, will spread yourself like a starfish
On your stomach. And your navel will become
Its undulating, echinoderm mouth slowly
Searching your blue, flannel sheets for lint
And bed bugs to consume and then expel.
You will sleep face down and your gasped breath
Against the pillow will mimic the lapping
Of waves against some slippery algae shore.
And there will be no time to worry
About what was never said, not with
The moon so busy playing marionette
And you so intent on rocking yourself