It’s not that I’m not comfortable
in my own skin. It’s that I can’t
ever be without it—it’s a harness
in a handbag, holding me to the ocean
with a hook and a thread.
This is the life I wanted—a cottage,
no Prince Charming but a kind heart,
a cat and a home library. In the sea
I can’t have any of this. Still, pink skin
for its other self, wet and dark.
One day I’ll go to the beach, set a fire,
throw in the bag full of everything
I carry around. Driver’s license,
lip gloss, cash, and the pelt, a last tie
to the water,
to the split and to the lie
that binds.
