Surfacing
Eight or nine years old,
I stood on the dock
over the dark, slatted river,
waiting for the sea cow
to surface. I didn’t know
the word manatee,
didn’t know men
had mistaken her
for a mermaid.
I only knew that if I waited
she would arrive.
The river smelled
part bracken, part small-
engine oil and kissed the wall
with a sound so sexual
I was glad no one was near
to be embarrassed for.
A chubby kid, I was sure
my way into the world
wouldn’t be through beauty.
And so, I had already begun
to run my fingers along
the fronts of words,
feeling for hinges.
The plastic bag of bread-ends
clammy in my hand,
sweat in my palm senseless
as hope—and then I saw her.
Ponderous, oblong, she wallowed
first, then spiraled up,
her face glamorous, human,
until she shed the glimmering
skin of water, broke the spell
with a comical snort.
I minded that she sloughed
her mystery off so easily,
though it comforted me too—
now I could give her bread
and watch her eat it.
But it was strange
to think she knew me.
Strange that she turned
from the soft weed
along the bank—every day
about this time—nosed
into the current, pushing
toward me.
by Trish Crapo
from Walk Through Paradise Backward
Slate Roof Press
Northfield, MA