Ocean Womb

by Carolin Messier



Before you were human you crawled from the sea
to inhale the sweet air,
drink spring water
and dry yourself in sunshine on solid ground.

Each lifetime you relive this doomed evolution,
leave your mother’s womb,
feel the force of gravity,
and open your eyes to take your first breath.

You see your own visage in the pools of another’s eyes
perfect twin images,
you look away
not from fear of the other, but of truly seeing yourself.

You yearn to return to this ocean of life to understand
the meaning
and the mystery
and the justness of why you are, and others have ceased to be.

But, it is impossible to devolve from having lungs and limbs
to growing gills and scales,
abandon plane and mountain,
to swim through liquid atmosphere eternally.

Salinated and undrinkable, filled by millennia of tears
you grow more distant,
isolated on foreign soil
afraid to venture beyond the sight from shore.

We call them continents to sound grand, but humanity
lives on islands,
turned inward,
with our backs to the winds and currents between us.

Our sorrows, trials and wounds are universal;
our islands embraced
by a single spherical sea
of turquoise, midnight, glacial frost and forget-me-nots.

Please, stretch your limbs, relieve your bones the weight of gravity
float on the sea,
face to the sky,
as you seek your mother’s arms, long past childhood.