Intertidal Zone
2 Minutes Read Time
In the winter a woman brings the ocean
in a crate, goes about separating the sea
cucumbers from the starfish from the hermit
crabs and anemones into saltwater bins
lining the room like a secret magic
show in a museum, the curator
a mermaid who grew legs in the tide pool
at a place called San Diego, thirty
miles south and too far aged four to imagine
how the sea witch conjured up the animals,
separated them from their mothers
and put them in bins according to size,
color, shape, texture, and the noise they make
when they swim. The sea cucumber is alone
and cries in the corner. The hermit crab
recoils after finger jabs. The starfish
scoot after being tussled by hypnotized
children who dream of swimming with dolphins
but forget about the sharks. The kids pick
away at the shells, searching for pearls,
and forget about the gills the fish
use to breathe, the smallest one in the corner
praying her fins won’t get scraped on the playground
after this rainy hour in December
when the stingray shuffles in the sand
in search of an exit route or a blessing,
the fish can’t say, except that their hearts
are in their gills and every swish
of water is prickly – don’t touch us –
where is the water? where is the sand?
why did you pluck us from the sea?
Read more from Issue 22.2.
