Mother, Ocean, Tear

by Gord Sellar

the first women
emerged from oceans
carrying within
fistfuls of it, hidden
salty-womb-drink

to anoint husbands,
baptize children, months-long
to pass a sacred drop into each daughter

what is a tear
except whispered
memory, brine, carried from
home?

do the fishes weep? do they
fill depths for
us, mourning lost cousins?
Do deep ones,
freakish luminous things,
nameless jellies, floating
shadow-tentacled monsters? Through the glass
you shudder, snapping pictures;
wonder, does it remember
me?

families have limits, boundaries,
barriers, photos that will never
be kept in albums, names
not made for genealogies

you will never learn to
swim.

— Saskatoon, 1996

February 10, 2012

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