rejuvenation 

i am told there is a surgery
to turn us back into fish.
when the procedure is done
the doctor puts on a pair of waiters 
and walks out into the surf 
& throws you to the kelp mother.
is it always a mistake to return?
when i cut myself gills i feel
like i can breathe only
they close & then i am a person again
strolling through target 
with a credit card. i used to 
have this compulsion of trying
fit myself back into clothes i wore
as a child. breaking seams.
i said, "look i am still a daisy 
in the mouth of my mother."
there is nothing left but the fabric.
but the corn & the thread &
the taste of a ripe mango sun.
the first years i was back
in my hometown
i haunted every memory i could.
stood in the tree where 
i kissed boys in lighting storms.
took my body to the sewing machine.
here is my face without 
the scar. here is my chest
without the steering wheel.
i go & get a mirror. work on it 
until it gives in & finally says,
"here you can look at yourself
when you were a girl." i see 
nothing but a pair of hands.
do not believe anyone who says
return is about rejuvenating
the old flesh. instead, i believe
in flooding my museums 
with birds. i live somewhere between
memorial & dreamscape.
we are not gone. we were
never gone.