Coral used to tell me I was
plucked from the sky in an
instant - placed in the ocean
to be saturated like a sponge.
“Get your fill of this world,”
she’d order. “There’s no telling
when the tide will turn.” Scruffy
arms weaving with the waves,
my attempts to adjust to the area
would leave me stranded amidst
the worn shells of shore - hopeless,
lost - a five-sided shape with
no corresponding hole in the
universe. “But, Coral,” I’d ask,
“what happens if I die?”
“Oh, Star,” she whispers, “the ocean
will cry. Her tears will cross miles,
and well up into walls
that’ll crash down upon the lands.
And when these tears rock the earth,
You’ll land amidst your family
high above this place again.”