Did you look for God like me
in the garden hose and
in between your thighs?
Did they believe you when you
explained you were born from an egg?

When I was born I bled only 
in water and incubated in the kiddie
pool outside my grandfather's porch
where everyone called me "peanut"
and I roared like one too.
Cracked open my shell like my hermit
crabs-- and I painted the porch
with my hair like Janine Antoni
who my pre-school art teacher said used her whole
body as a brush.
I was not hatched from an egg
like a bird. There was no egg tooth
for me to forget like a wedding ring
in the coral reefs of Cancun.
I was a water hacky-sack.
I was the solitary
pupil of the frog egg cluster
that became a tadpole and became
tiny-legged and scared.
I was RainForest baby. 
I was lioness. My grandfather believed
I walked on water so he offered
me fruit snacks from the top
of the fridge-- and you held the hose like
the cut writs of God-- the fountain
turned my hair into sea weed.
I learned about God in the water
and not what you think of like baptism--
because each Sunday I spent mass
wanting to swim in the fountain--
Be hatched again and grow legs in time
to get up for communion-- and the space
between my thighs would be wet--
rub together like damp firewood.
I would peel myself apart like pecan swirls
or monkey bread.
You didn't believe me when I explained
I was born from an egg and not a body.
I told you that I could tuck in the
tide like a bed sheet.
I told you I was walking on water.
I told you I was trying to grow
legs while still remembering what it 
meant to swim.