secondhand skin

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