My doula’s tub isn’t hungry enough, so I wade into the ocean. Pebbles burrow between my toes. Briny fingers circle my ankles. When I give birth, the water laps you up, swallows you whole, chases you down with an iceberg. My baby pink salmon. You want saltwater instead of milk, boiled krill instead of cold kisses. I try to reach for you to say goodbye, but you disappear into the pulsating blue gullet. It grows and grows until it is empty again. Then an army of Jonah crabs appear, like orange flames licking the shore. With strong, curved claws, they lead me to my burning home.

In the seagrass where you were born, I brushed the harebell from your eyes and fed you pearly everlasting. You bloodroot me and I am ironweed with your heart. Now, your eyes are mere sundrops in the space between us. My floating heart, my gravel ghost. I’ll spin marigold into your absence and one day you’ll become liveforever.

just began to develop a backbone.
Isn’t that what you said about me the other day?
A thick skull. A segmented body.
I wonder if all this extra oxygen
will explode into new life.