you dress for work in straight skirt

& paisley blouse. It’s camouflage, like a turtle 

buried on the beach, how lost you were, newly left. 

As your teen daughter, I determined not to follow you,

wore men’s clothes. Why? Women are weak, get forgotten.

You & I, we spun alone, separate eggs tossed in ocean tides.

When we were sea turtles doesn’t sound as pretty 

as when we were sparrows, but turtles have no vocal chords

& in that tract house set on sand & termites, it fit: we burst 

out of egg casings, unable to talk. The new world

with no instructions. Where was the ocean.

Your denial was as seamless as the leathery eggs:

If we tried to say we loved each other, we groaned 

& screamed, big sounds from the archelon carapaces 

we hid in, or dove deep to the ocean floor, benthic.

Years & years later we did say it, despite all, at a holiday event 

where rum made emotions flow, but still I was glad we both fled 

after, as our strangely hinged togetherness could have sent 

us back into a hiding in our nests buried in the beach.

Then who knows if we would emerge under the moon, or 

maybe be unfound, not knowing differently. 


Lynn Finger’s (she/her) poetry has appeared in Ekphrastic Review, 8Poems, Perhappened, Twin Pies, Kissing Dynamite, Book of Matches and Drunk Monkeys. Lynn is an editor at Harpy Hybrid Review and works with a group that mentors writers in prison. Follow Lynn on Twitter @sweetfirefly2.

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