Ocean Wings

Ocean stretches salty paws to the horizon, a fur of seaweed and sunken shells deep in the hide. 
Land growls in the absence and claws at my back, drawing my thoughts to marshy fields and jagged tree trunks searching for blue sky through a tangled pelt of clouds. 

Time twists and breaks, flexes like the bow of this pummeled boat. 
I strain my dreams through the sieve of stars overhead and what falls remains to be slumbered upon. 

Here in my hands the wings of a fish tremble and push, a curve pressing into the palms behind bloody knuckles as translucent bones shift and spread. A gasp and release, a shriek and a sigh. Into the water into the night we move forward together in leaps and glides and a jauntiness I never knew I held. You teach me well. 

I wipe the sun streaks from my eyes and let the moon wash over me its secret language of reflection, illumination from source unseen. The song has just begun in the quiet of the dark and I hold the notes between waves, between screaming gusts, between fingers that can no longer grasp this place. 

We understand each other: the dive and flight, the relinquishment of time and holding of grace. Fins and feet, whale jaws and rhubarb roots. None of it makes sense until I stand (swim) in the middle of it all and let it go. You (I) tumble back into the blackness, trusting whatever is after you (me) drives us forward and calls us to the slippery descent back Home.  

From the edge of a chair

I am sitting in a chair, fabric stinking of brine and age, head craned, staring out into what was once a sea.
Tiny fragments of swimmers, fins and rings of vertebrae and jawbones no longer glubbing, poke into my bare feet, my toes attempting to find the sand underneath.
Pink and gray haze swallows the sky and I duck my head as if I could avoid the blanket of silence (save the screaming of birds! save the rumble of semis barreling past on a two lane highway!) smothering the valley.
The tides once ebbed and flowed here, the sharks swam above my head, the eels burrowed into ancient mud where the houses now crumble.
I am sitting in a chair, staring out at the water table of time.

They live underneath the surface

"Which are worse, crocodiles or sharks?" she pondered as she snipped off a long blond lock of my hair. It fell to the floor and dissipated into the furry mat now forming at the base of the swivel chair.
"I think crocodiles," I answered, trying not to wince, to reason that my memories of the islands, boats, love, do not lie in strands of bleached tangled keratin. "Because at least you can see sharks right? I think crocodiles are sneakier. And they have bigger jaws. Unless you're talking Great Whites and then you're just fucked."
I stared into my face in the mirror. My hair was getting shorter, my face rounder than it had been on the boat. My eyes were red, my eyelids squishy with allergies and lack of sleep.
I wanted to cry. But instead I conversed.
"I mean, I went swimming every day when I could," I said. "I didn't want to hear about sharks or crocodiles lurking about. Even small fish would freak me out sometimes. I had one nipping at me one time. It chased me all the way to the boat!"
She laughed. Her comb was caught in a knot that once was salty dry or drenched in smoky coconut oil for weeks at a time. She cut. I continued.
"There was one time I was swimming near the boat and heard whales singing in the distance.."
She looked up. "Yeah, see, there are so many things in there. I don't like it. I mean I saw online about all the weird looking things, alien looking things, at the bottom of the ocean." She shivered.
"Yeah, they're all just looking up at us and laughing." I said, a little too darkly.

I looked around the room in the mirror. Vintage desks and lights, a half empty wine bottle on a shelf, a hairdryer in a holster. I felt my eyes tear up. It was that sort of day. Therapy had been great, I felt myself growing, realizing, feeling. I knew I needed to let out the roiling anger and grief. But there was so much more underneath that I wasn't even aware of yet. So many creatures in the depths with funny looking snouts and no eyes to see in the inky blackness. Sure, the sharks of fear, the crocodiles of sadness (blah blah) were fairly easy to spot, to name, to avoid or face head on when you couldn't swim fast enough away, make up enough excuses not even to dive into the water.
But now that I am finally making friends with my foes, allowing them to tear my vulnerability apart in order to reveal the underpinnings of my sturdy soul, I find myself simultaneously curious and terrified of what is further below. What lurks in the depths that I can't even imagine? How horrible will the hunters get?
But maybe even if it looks funny or strange or hasn't seen the surface in its lifespan, it might not be so deadly or horrible. It could even be beautiful, like that shimmering pseudopod in The Abyss, all light and liquid. Without fins or snapping jaws to alert my attention, will I ever know these bottom dwellers? Is it worth fearing something you will never hold, never see?

 My blond ends mostly gone, my honey brown healthy waves down my back (a bit shorter but still a light pressure against my scapula), I brush off the remaining strands clinging to my arm.
"There's a lot under the surface, for sure." I agreed.
And for some reason, I had the overwhelming desire to swim, flounder, become strong among all the creatures trolling these unseen depths. It was the therapy talking, that courage to face the depths after intentionally mining them with a skilled fisherman. Intentionally trolling, spearing passing words for meaning, sighs for signs. Gutting and examining the gullets of all that we find.

Wasabi for your thoughts, anyone?