You are small and glossy
in the hands of the Mother,
not quite the pearl treasure
they are so fond of - a light scum
clouding the shine of newborn
delicacy like a coat of fog.
You washed up on the shore,
a soft pink shell bump-bump-
bumping through the teeth of
sea and the parting foam.
You won’t come apart, holding on
with a tentacle, tightening
your grip on the Mother's belly.
What are these limbs?
This flesh spreading from all angles
as starfish splaying their legs.
What is this sound? A dull echo
rises in gurgles as if drowned
in the thrashing waves of a tempest.
The tide meets the hum of life and
unimaginable light pours, too clean,
after the swaddled depths.
There’s a shape above you, round
as the moon. You can’t stop breathing.