They say the sea forgets nothing,
holds every salt-soaked secret in its sway,
and that night, under the full moon’s pull,
I saw her shape rise from the swell.
Her skin, gray and slick as wet stone,
draped across her shoulders like a heavy shawl.
She stepped onto the shore,
barefoot, soft as the tide’s retreat,
and her eyes found mine—
two deep pools that held no past,
no future, only now.
I thought to speak, to call her name
from the old stories my grandmother told,
but words stuck in my throat
like tangled nets,
and in the long beat between breaths,
I knew her for what she was:
a selkie bound to the tides
and bound to leave.
We stood there, two strangers
on the trembling edge of a world
too vast to contain us.
I watched as she folded into herself,
her limbs thinning into fin,
her gaze pulling me under.
The sea roared its ancient song,
but she said nothing,
leaving me with the quiet of her leaving,
and the salt of an unfinished tale
caught in the back of my throat.
–
Jeffery Allen Tobin is a political scientist and researcher based in South Florida. His extensive body of work primarily explores U.S. foreign policy, democracy, national security, and migration. He has been writing poetry and prose for more than 30 years.
© 2024, Jeffery Allen Tobin
Halfway Down the Stairs 