Littoral
1.
He formed my cheek bones from abalone,
untangled the sea grass ruffs clumped in my hair--
told me I was a creature of littoral zones.
2.
Necklace clasped cusp of waves
across the jagged cliffs of my 
toenails.
I'm painted with echinoderms.
3.
He formed me like a the space between
lips- wax paper between where mouths consume
each other and emerge 
for air.
4.
Form a colony with my in the crusty
eyelids of the rocks. Feel naked
wrapped in sea foam-- drop your
bra like a life raft. 
5.
Wait to be called a mermaid.
6.
Dress like a manatee.
7.
Tell you could have scales
and legs
and hips
of calcium carbonate. 
8.
Peel back your seal skin for the night
and sleep in the house by the ocean.
9.
They don't have to know 
that we live between the crock pot
of God and the ladle whose handle
is close to slipping into the pot.
10.
Call me by my name
at night when the moon
tucks the shore in for sleep
with each hesitant tug of waves.
10.
Call me Sarah.
10.
Take pictures of my foot prints.
10.
Call me Sarah.
10.
Cut your heels on littoral rocks.
Clean our wounds in the salt.