Not even my dog knows me, hovers
outside the bathroom as I wash blood
from the porcelain, wipe up the floors.
I feel more at ease with the mess
than the pain. We’re not supposed to
talk about that anyway, my fleet
of would-be mothers who never labored
but birthed something too.
Mine half-seahorse, half-anemone
like something you’d find in an off-season
coastal gift shop after looking for whales
and not finding any whales.
And now my skin turns blue
as if my veins are submarines
surfacing after too long underwater.
Did you know the Navy studies sharks
in hopes of making better ships?
Can you imagine? Mariners on megalodons.
Let’s name them after our ancestors.
Let’s hold the notion of them
inside our heads until they’re real.