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 part 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.