Selkie:
a mythical creature 
that resembles a seal in the water 
but assumes human form on land

The selkie in night slippers who took a bite out of the moon.

They say our husbands
hide our seal skin but I don't need
a husband to have a closet to keep it in--
folded neatly like pajama pants 
or a night robe with a hood
to pull over my eyes-- my nose
washed in the stale soap of the bog
-- worn thin by unwanted kisses
and chlorine-- the open necktie--
unknown-- untied-- tied wrong
like a bow or a braid--
my father wore this skin and peeled
it off like the graceless ribbon of a potato
Everyone learned I was a selkie when they dropped
me in the baptismal fountain and had to fish
me out with a crab net--
said it was a shame that the priest 
had become too old
to hold babies-- I was
the type of baby that couldn't be held--
slippery-- garden hose necked--
so by the time the nun got me from the bottom
of the fountain it
was too late and the church had
already all seen me as a seal--
my parents were embarrassed and we
left after communion.
My grandfather knew and left
me to soak in a plastic pool on the
porch-- fed me Ritz crackers 
while I lay on my belly--
naked like baptism-- like salad
dressing-- like stale soap--
he was fascinated and kept a daily
general of the seal child-- told
me to never let them take
the skin away from me-- I was
rain forest baby-- born of 
the down pours that feed into the
salt wounds of the sea where
I will eventually return.
I've been trying to get back there
since I was baptized--
Sometimes I'm scared the next time
I go to the ocean that I won't be able
to become human again--
the chlorine-- the Swedish fish--
the board walk with it's planks of
thick-cut French fries-- cheese sauce-- 
blood-- ketchup or hot sauce on my snout--
and I'll come ashore only
to find that I'm still
shiny and thick-tailed-- whiskers
prickly like my led hairs--
do you smell the chlorine on my skin?
the soap?
the worries?
I keep all this in the pockets
of my night robe-- 
I think my roommate knows
about my seal skin-- I think
she notices me put on my
floral night robe instead of
the seal skin each time after a shower
when I feel the water calling me home.
I can hear the rivers start to whisper
across mainstreet and in my on whiskers--
I walk out humid into the night--

Confront the moon.
Tell her she pulls me.
Tell her I know that the
time will come when I return
to the ocean for good
but that for tonight I will
be able to take off the skin
again-- pluck the whiskers from
my face-- stumble-- fumble for
the feeling of two legs again by 
the beacon light on the porch
in my slippers.
Before I leave I'll take a bite from
the moon because it tastes
like the ocean-- Swedish fish
melted in chlorine-- French fries
held together by blood 
or ketchup or cheese.

I don't tell you this to scare you
or brag about knowing what the moon
tastes like. It's not a warning or a cause
for alarm. My return to the ocean
is not something to fear because it
is as inevitable as humidity and unpredictable
as French fries. I tell you so 
you know where I went
when you wake up in August to 
an empty bed after the full-belly
of the moon.