I track the errant tides, irregular ebb and flow.
I open my mouth to suck
in water, I blow it back out, godlike,
salt residue on my lips. I am ravenous
for the wet breath of earth after spring
rains, the slip of cotton across my breasts.
I cannot let go. The moon blooms and thins.
My muscles grow lean, joints supple.
I know there are others—
corporeal, hungry, somewhere here,
this marsh or the next
or the next where the red wing
blackbird sings its liquid song and I do
not see it, I do not see it, but I hear it
and I know it is kin.