It is the beginning of time when we were green and transparent as tadpoles. Water moves through our bodies like sand in the hands of the wave. Tendrils of hair—delicate as the feathery gills of fish—flutter in the swaying sea while our legs, the muscles small and tight as pearls, stretch behind us. Plants open and close in the waves.
Alone in the quiet world of shadow and light, we glide, glancing to ripples above. If in play we break the surface, our bodies mix with foam, shining white in the air. Linger in the churning spray and the skin pales, just for a moment, before we dive back into the green. Our hearts beat with tiny clumps of blood. The sun wavers overhead and is worshipped.
In time, you see the child forming in your womb. Born clear, the baby swims on its own. Watch carefully, for the transparent child is easily lost. Air lurks above, waiting to dry out the little one, leave it floating on the swell. Flat, like a painted-on surface without a soul.
The men fight, bored. They play war games, breaking through the glass mirror to encounter the danger of air. Their bodies harden, and our babies are born whiter, firmer, their genes knowing sun and heat.
Our world begins to change. The sea feels heavy, a weight on our arms. The small tail kept since birth disappears. We breathe, deep and labored. The slow, languid turns through the water are a dream of another time, slipping in and out of memory like smoke.
We move onto the earth, dragging babies by their arms. Afraid of the air, we curl on the sand and learn to burn fire in the night. Slowly, we move from the shore to escape the haunting call of the sea. We sleep in fields where tin noises play in the dark. The cool, soft, water life is remembered only when we cry out in love and salt water once again runs through our bodies.
Away in time, the ocean pounds the shore. Dark waves forever lift silt from the ocean bed and pour on shore while earth’s plates crack and ooze. The land lives, but our babies remember the sea, floating in the midnight ocean of our wombs.
Very different from your other writings.
And inclusive: science, natural history, somatic memory.
Very poetic. I hope to see more like this. the
Ellen Morris Prewitt
Thank you, Joe. I’m glad you liked it.