I was a grey seal, my lush fur
crusted with salt and pearls –
until that day when I lay too long
upon the shore. He stole my hide,
placed it in a herring net and took it.
I raged at the foaming sea for
a long hour, spitting at sailors
and empty eyed gulls.
My sisters left without me
to dance on other rocks, while
I remained, marooned on these legs.
A woman. Such is my curse.
I learned your ways, slowly, achingly.
I look human, but don’t mistake me:
I’m the dark park of the sea,
the swell that pulls you under.
My limbs long for their own undoing.
One day the water will come for me;
call to me with violent urgency.
You’ll awaken to find empty
clothes and saltwater by the bed –
the remains of half a wife.
Selkie
