The ocean is a friend of mine.
She knew me before I had lungs.
I visit her every Sunday now
after many years on land.
Who’s this strange fish wading into my waters? she asks.
Look at you, standing on your own two feet.
I look down at limbs that used to be fins.
The tide swishes between the fingers
and washes sand away from
beneath the toes.
How’s land? the ocean asks.
Pretty good, I reply.
I’m making it work.
One foot in front of the other, she says.
That’s the saying, right?
She speaks in sighs that
reverberate against the bluffs.
She won’t admit it, but somewhere
in her depths, she’s proud of me.
You can always come back, she says,
if things get too hard. The whales did,
and they seem happy.
Give me a few million years, I say.
I’m sure I’ll figure it out.
She reaches for the sun, like she’s plucking a ripe fruit,
bringing it slowly to her face. One bite splashes twilight
into the atmosphere, coating an orchard of clouds in a
haze of gold and lavender.
From now on, I say,
I’ll always come to visit you.
You better, she says
and sends a sudden wave to
punch me in the chest—
just hard enough
to remind me
of her power.