In the circle of women

on the waves, we talk about

the whales.

(I am an animal.

Ferocious, soft, open. I only see

shape, colour, emotion, and brilliant

articulate rage.)

They are our mothers:

pewter bodies and

their heavy milk

tethered, weighted to the water

suspended and patient.

Cycles and cycles ago, they chose

to stay where they were

welcome.

Where did we go?

If you’re a woman

the word eludes you.

It has to, if you’re good

as women are.

Woman is elided into–

driven out, ridden over

amalgamated, taken, riven,

buried, gone in

no time. Rent asunder.

In the ocean, our breasts bob

and we compare each other’s bodies

without malice or remorse or envy.

Only curious glances and

a sweetness in the belly.

Some of us are gazelles.

I am the mother elephant, alone

surrounded by her sisters with their backs

turned away.

They know there is no help

no safety, nothing

sacred only

all life.

With a breath, I dive,

shattering.

Cracking open.