marine abyss— Tah-
lequah, what did you call
your daughter before she
spilled from your womb; sea-daughter
out of sea-mother; saltwater balloon
within a balloon floating the blue
ocean planet like a universal
womb where galaxies
pulse like jellyfish?
Tah-
lequah, our planet sails
with a magnetic pole
tail. You navigate the amplitude and
frequency of magnetic fluctuation,
Tah-
lequah, echo listener, whistle-bouncer,
hydrodynamic sailor balancing
your daughter’s body a thousand miles
through currents spiked
with tangled nylon and crumpled
styrofoam tubs.
Tah-
lequah, when in
your eighteen-month
gestation did your body
sense it could not grow another?
Your afterbirth ravels
red fibers leached from your body
by warm industrial waters.
You hold your emaciated
newborn at the surface of your world
and the rim of mine,
Tah-
lequah. You breathe for her,
but there is no response. You swim
through detritus; through
the din of engines, the screech
of metal on metal.
Tah-
lequah, you breathe and
breathe again, but do not dive.
You do not hunt.
Tah-
lequah, you hold
your child up;
to be buoyant, to wish
her lungs to swell
and sigh with air. We
document your journey
in miles, in days. How
do you keep time,
Tah-
lequah? In tidal shifts; in
phases of the moon? Can you
predict when the effluvial
stream of oil-tainted water
will wash from the streets
of Seattle?
Do the century-old
matriarchs of your
community sing the epic
of your journey?
Tah-
lequah, may we re-
member the name we
gave you. May we teach
children the rhythm and beat
of your heart; the splash of your
body breaking the waves,
Tah-
lequah.
