Once, just after waking
and before thinking, I tied
the bedsheets around my loins
and pretended I ruled the sea.
My mother told me this
was blasphemy, that we don't believe
in sea gods, in this house. A rosary bead
scuttled to the floor that day,
but they say that prayers
can't be heard from the bottom of the ocean,
even with chests tattooed
with shark's teeth, smelling
just faintly of myrrh
from all the way across the sea.
Sickly from swallowing salt,
I begged to be given
I begged to be given
a dominion on land to rule over.
I believe all the stories
they tell about the origins
of the world: it's only
in rocking back and forth
nervously, counting down
the breaths I can take
before being sent away
to sit on my own feet,
that I'm forced to learn
I was ever meant
to stay still as the earth turns.
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