" Sea Fear "
My grandfather would build fires
on Nova Scotia's shore, drag driftwood;
gray limbs like elephant trunks
which cackled, roared
as he told us stories.
We'd glow orange,
my brother, sister and I
with talk of women from under the sea
who broke red shells
of crab with their teeth,
wove kelp in each other's hair.
Tales meant to frighten children
from rocky edges, told of men
washed away, bodies bloated, eyes glazed.
Male fish who could not remember day.
How was he to know, I'd rise
long after all had gone to bed,
walk past a fire's grave,
strip myself of grandmother's white cotton,
swim in waves. How was he to know,
I'd find you here
when I believed myself
too old to dream
of sirens painted blue,
forgetting once again
exactly when it was, that moment,
the moment I'm suppose to feel afraid.
© 2002 Treezaa (T. E. Ballard)
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