in the summers
underwater,
i grew little gills
sometimes also,
fins.
my mother
would urge me
onto land for
sandwiches,
she would cock
her head sideways
on a beach, on a
deck.
“are you coming
in?” I’d yell
through a slur
of wet lips.
“maybe later”
she’d say “come
eat.”
mother never
grew gills like me.
she never lost
herself in
underwater
flips,
weightless.
& if she did
come in,
I would loom,
ominous
my hair clouded
jellyfish-like
she’d say “okay,
I see you. go play.
I don’t want
my hair getting wet.”
Finding Joy in the Ordinary 