Making Water
By Ruth Wiggins
In their proverbs, the Sumerians quoted Fox as saying — on having pissed
into the sea — All the ocean is now my urine! Now, hang on there girl.
I want to get a handle on your homeopathic incontinent ways,
because I think you may be onto something. Firstly, what kind of fox
are you that approaches the shore; no hen house to bother, no brambles
to scoff? No line of emerald shit to booby-trap the garden with?
Perhaps wherever we are, you are; so why not the beach? What promise
did the salt ocean offer you, or appear to? Cured meat? Fish? After all,
once a month I know I reek gloriously of kelp — salt and iron and yeast —
an umami feast for the brave, or weak. Or were you worrying seabirds
up on the cliff — stopped in your tracks, unable to resist. A little splish.
The wind threshing your water as it fell — yellow, scattered, one or two
drops of which maybe reached. Or perhaps you were caught short,
coy on the beach, and entered the surf for decorum’s sake. All over
the world, miles from the sea, girls caught between poor sanitary
provision and a social imperative to be discreet find themselves
in a dark place, their skirts about their waists. Maybe it was
the king’s men that saw fit to drive you into the sea. But clever,
resourceful, you just thumbed your nose and learned to swim.
Paddled to safer land, much like we once did. Your charcoal paws
doggedly turning the cold pages of the sea. Pausing now and then
to pee, a comforting cloud of heat. And which child among us hasn’t
cast their blessing on the waves? Sent into the surf by mothers, which of us
hasn’t rightfully claimed the ocean as our own, or in turn been claimed?
Notes:
This poem originally appeared in The Poetry Review. You can read the other poems in this exchange in the May 2017 issue.
Source: Poetry (May 2017)