of my silver-tailed mother and human father.
I know it’s true.
I see the spark of it still
between them, bright as coral,
every time my mother runs her fingers
through my father’s hair, or my father looks
at the shine of her tail as though
it’s every jewel in the ocean.
it’s that the spark between them,
that impossible love between shore and sea,
gave my blood a restlessness, an inability
to settle above or below the surface.
Everyone tells me it’s not safe to bring a child into the world by salt water, like I can do something about it now. They whisper about my mother’s brujería, how she crawled into the lapping waves. How she let the low surf catch me. They fear me for having lived through it, sure that I must be part starfish or sea urchin.
They fear me for coming into the world by way of the sea.
my sisters have the same restlessness.
they’ve just learned to bear it
with their regal grace.
the sea molds their tails and fins
onto their bodies, each one growing
more glittering and elaborate
because they never leave for land.
they never surface long enough
or come far enough toward shore
for their tails to vanish off their bodies
so that the sea has to start over.
they compare their intricate tails
the ways girls in Abulón Cove
compare the shine of their hair.
then they look at mine—
simple and plain—
