ESTUARY 2

She was born with fins and fishtail,
A quick blade slicing water.

 

She was her father’s mermaid child,
A river demon, elders said.

 

She mimicked her cetaceous brothers,
Abalone diving bluest depths.

 

She polished smooth her brothers’ masks,
Inlaid nacre half-moon eyes.

 

She lit oak pyres and bade the wind
A whispered requiem.

 

She knew the songs of tidal surge,
Of death-still moonless nights.

 

She veiled herself in cornflower
To soothe the ocean’s rage.

 

She learned the language of the loom,
Mirrored grandmother’s oak tree hands.

 

She spooled elk sinew pulled from bone,
Fleeting bodies, a meditation.

 

She carved spear tip and dagger hilt
In winter’s shadowy corners.

 

She sharpened blades, and fled downriver
As elders clucked their tongues.

 

She emerged in spring, this tribe of one,
Hybrid coyote and cool green sea.