Of the marigolds, of blue vinyl suitcase, of crud all over the stove
she'd left shiniest
         two to bring light to,
         yes a shelf in reach where the little both of them could begin
         could make his clean start as fresh as Watermelon slice (oh
          where was her life?)
                   in him his tiny mysteries her laughing sound alight
                   in his throat

                   oh what was a mother to do, being her, and suddenly
                   it's now?

when she went away there was this big boy who pushed him
when she went away they pushed him in the puddle
he was running home, he was running home and she wasn't there

but trying somewhere else to find out who
and where, was she?

                   was she not the neat and tidy? did she not see
                   her seducers in a line and shaking their fingers and showing
                   "be here, be here"

in her mind (was it?) she lay at the edge of the waters, at the
edge of the waters
         was it sand there? was her fish skin bare? all she knows is
         it scratches and when the waves collapse in inches she cannot
         swim for her finny body's half human.      One day she's
         plunk on the shore and her image comes to her in       in a picture          as though holding a mirror of blue paint
                   just a whiff of horizon and the little waves creeping
                   and folding      and there it is, no way of turning her
                   back now      her thighs/knees, softest whirring of
                   crotch hair      and all the color of how she ought to be
                   but suddenly those fins
                   and the beginning of silver slippery fish-lady lying,
                   no arms no woman swimming, but a face cut deep with
                   gills and the sad eyes panting

and the absolute quiet of something about to arrive.

scroll bar below to the right to continue