My mother’s fingers-
eye-wincingly salty-
brushing my hair,
caressing my cheeks,
Fingers so salty,
it hurt.
“Mom,”
I call.
“Mom.”
I look.
I turn.
I squint.
“I know you’re there,”
I whisper,
staring into the vast depth of everything.
But I don’t dip my feet in-
Not yet.
Not yet.
Not until mother comes out.
Not yet.
I repeat nothings of ‘not yet’,
emphasize on the ‘yet’,
because I know she will come someday.
I look-
for the last time,
I turn-
for the last time.
I squint-
for the last time.
Still, mother is there.
Her skin is not solely hers.
Her skin has
oil-thick foam
plastic
clothes
and what we left behind
but are too afraid to pick up.
Her eyes are not solely hers.
Her eyes are
the extinction of her children
the rising temperature of the tides
the honking of boats
and what we have created
but are too afraid to take back.
Her fingers are,
still,
and will forever be salty,
but also sticky
from the oil
from the waste
and from us.
Though not in her original form,
I know my mother is there.
My mom.
Our mom.
Just where our eyes
cannot ‘sea’.
“There’s mother!”
Maybe,
Just maybe,
tomorrow’s me would introduce mother
to her friends.
Maybe,
Just maybe,
mother might be able to rise
from all the remains of greed and selfishness
we have chained to her beautiful soul.
Maybe,
tomorrow,
my free mother would be able to
take pride in the pain
laced all over her,
take pride in what
she has gone through.