at night, the selkies sleep underneath a roof of whalebone
in the morning, they swim towards the surface
trade their skins for uniforms, hide their forms somewhere precious
and they serve tables, sparkling, effervescent.
the spit rolls off their skin, glass marbles, and the baneful,
apathetic stares glance off their well-woven scales
at night, they may lose a memory, a lock of hair, a sense of time
a small piece that will never return
they will barely notice that it is gone, only that there is less
at night, cradled within a grand rib-cage, they play poker
with water-proof cards. At night, they laugh about their dreams.
There is a new blackness at the corners of their eyes.
In the morning, they drive on the freeway,
they visit the city, get ice cream
Or they don’t do anything at all, up till dawn behind a screen
before remembering who they are
at night, amidst anemones, they realize, collectively
that it is getting harder and harder to breathe underwater
Today exotic leather coats hang untouched, gathering dust
in wooden wardrobes in thrift shops in trunks in the closet
and the selkies, don’t really go by that anymore, they prefer the term ‘land-locked’
and so they are
devoid of surface scars, smooth and shining
as slowly fading as the stars
twenty years from now their hands will tremble when
they tap their keys. Not from age or weakness, but from
the feeling that they have somehow missed something
terribly, crucially important. Their eyes will look like
lamplights, flickering behind heavy glass.
and their skeleton will still be there,
home to millions, food for all
they will laugh about their dreams
while trying to remember what they are
