As children we roamed wild,
covered in soot and dust,
baking cakes with mud and
donning crowns made from lice-ridden branches.
So brave, we lay in puddles
without questioning the consequences.
So what now?
What does it mean to
bathe in unclean waters?
Does the very act undo the ritual?
Block out the sun and
nullify the hymns of the Oceanside gulls?
Seagulls. I am a seagull.
No, I’m an actress—
stuck in a play with no dialogue.
Left only with the sin of maturation,
Sitting, stationary—the in-action
of repetitious breathing.
Who am I to those girls from the schoolyard?
The old gathering place where superstitions
were made known and tales spun
for when we became wedded and old.