The ocean threads our hair
with the loam of
night forgotten.
I've counted the hours
since you have quivered to
life in the core of me,
folding outward in twos and fours
and sixes.
Our body divides.
Morning
presses
through mangroves
with a fat and milky fist
and I can see the day unfolding
on our skin.
I washed away your
brothers and sisters in the
brackish slurry
between my legs,
their screams the
beating of moth wings
and fairy dust.

You will only miss
them when I
am gone.

They will call you
Calvaluna,
Cambion,
a jumble of bones and
meat clinging to
the idea of arms and legs.
Half formed now
in our body,
you the murky reflection,
the lees of the Atlantic
washed ashore
with the
caridea and the ballyhoo.
Small.
Malignant.
Monstrous.

Beautiful.