Selkie Mother

The story goes like this: You tug at your ring finger
with calloused palms. Pacing
from room to room, you forget
 
why the trunk is locked, until memory
unlocks it. The seal skin is fresh, slides, glides
over the back of the neck,
 
around the breasts. The thick thighs
undivide, one from two.
Be breath and water, be sleek,
 
be song. Waves come and go. Body apart
from heart. Start toward the depths,
dark water, seen from after.
 
Look back once. Their small human fingers
will slide off your slippery coat, nothing to catch
hold of, no memory, no regret. Leave them
 
only eyes dark and opaque. Only the sea.
 
That’s the way people tell it, anyway.
As usual, they have mistaken
 
what you want. Leaving
was never the end.
 
To come and go was your only desire.
The seal skin was never the barrier;
 
the only severance
was the lock.