Size / / /

Seeking light,

She struggles

With great effort from the water.

Seeking warmth,

She scrabbles forward,

Searching for dry sand.

Her claws leave deep, wet scores

In the cold, black muck at water's edge,

But don't catch well

In the softer stuff

Just a few lengths farther inland.

Pale grey, this sand

Is polished to silken

Fineness by the wear of ages.

It holds the heat she's searching for,

Even now, long past sunset.

One of the last of her kind,

She does not know it;

She'd strive as strongly

If she shouldered through a crowd

Of a hundred of her sisters.

Guided by the pull of instinct

She knows only temperature;

She seeks the perfect weight and warmth

Of sand to cradle her last egg.

She finds the place just as the moon's

Face lifts over the sea's horizon.

A perfect hollow in gull-grey sand

Waits as if for her alone.

She nestles in it, closes her eyes,

Waits as the night breeze chills her back,

Her own scales quicksilver in the light

Of a spring full moon, a light to spawn by.

And when the egg is laid she turns away.

She kicks a drift of soft, fine sand

Into the hollow with careful purpose.

The moon lights a path for her across the beach,

But she knows the way back to the sea,

Just as the hatchling will know his way

Back to Atlantis when the sun spills gold

Over his first morning.




Robin M. Mayhall writes business articles and promotional copy by day and speculative fiction and poetry in her spare time. She lives in Baton Rouge, La., with four cats who indulge her hobby with only occasional attempts to sit on her laptop's keyboard. This is her first poetry sale. You can reach her by email at robin@hieran.com.
Current Issue
22 Apr 2024

We’d been on holiday at the Shoon Sea only three days when the incident occurred. Dr. Gar had been staying there a few months for medical research and had urged me and my friend Shooshooey to visit.
...
Tu enfiles longuement la chemise des murs,/ tout comme d’autres le font avec la chemise de la mort.
The little monster was not born like a human child, yelling with cold and terror as he left his mother’s womb. He had come to life little by little, on the high, three-legged bench. When his eyes had opened, they met the eyes of the broad-shouldered sculptor, watching them tenderly.
Le petit monstre n’était pas né comme un enfant des hommes, criant de froid et de terreur au sortir du ventre maternel. Il avait pris vie peu à peu, sur la haute selle à trois pieds, et quand ses yeux s’étaient ouverts, ils avaient rencontré ceux du sculpteur aux larges épaules, qui le regardaient tendrement.
We're delighted to welcome Nat Paterson to the blog, to tell us more about his translation of Léopold Chauveau's story 'The Little Monster'/ 'Le Petit Monstre', which appears in our April 2024 issue.
For a long time now you’ve put on the shirt of the walls,/just as others might put on a shroud.
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