Clambered out of the sea,
but half fish at heart,
songless on this strange shore of
sandcastles flattened by the wind.
I could go back.
Repaint my scales and sew
my feet into fins,
trade legs for a tail,
chase summer all the way to Australia.
Or I might grow accustomed
to the bite of the earth and the air:
far north –
see the cities where they put salt in the snow
make a torch of a pumpkin
with my hands and a knife –
haven’t I longed
for the dull cold, the soft frost,
the garden of creeping trellis,
the slowly growing bulbs
of orange, almost glowing
I have waited
to plunge my fingers into that soft heart
hold tight and twist free
the wet seeds, the wet threads
the core and the source
to plant my feet firm in the dirt
to unclench my fist
like an offering.
Ren Arcamone is a writer and aspiring optimist living in Sydney, Australia. She can be found occasionally tweeting into the void at @renherring.