A tongue of lacy foam nudges
the stranded bull kelp upshore. 
Caramel bulbs float, pulling brown tails
behind like heavy hoses
coiled in Medusa mounds
the color of molasses,
pods softly popping under heels.

Sea glass sparkles beside
abalone fragments, prisms of pink,
and the mussel’s sky blue and limpet rings. 
The tide rises, kelp edges up
onto fine dry sand where strands
desiccate to bitter black.

Far west a storm died,
telegraphing a swell:
stone-holds were ruptured,
water-trees uprooted,
some with young bulbs
thin as the human amnion.

So was I ripped from my moorings,
sea-story over, sunk down
like dough in a doctor’s palms,
seal-heavy in the white glare,
swaddled in a bassinet and spirited
away from mother sea, her bells
and voices, the kelp towers.


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