The Law of Salvage
flotsam.
what i think of first is
buoyancy.
my awe when
the whole surface of the sea is
jostling with driftwood. it is
what my father calls
BRACKISH WATER.
although actually
that is not
what the word means
BRACKISH
really means
a salinity between sea and fresh.
this is a good thing to learn. i realise
that adults are not to be
trusted.
jetsam.
we collect this driftwood
as it lays carpeting the tide
and bring it home.
it has been thrown up
by the sea
my father tells me.
like VOMIT, i sing
(i am learning about
the body and its excretions,
at this time)
he calls this process
beach combing, and
i picture
the small bugs that crawl on the sand
as lice.
lagan.
i do not have a clear memory
of this, although
i remember the stinging rush of
saltwater forced up
nasal cavity.
i hear the story
from the drooping red lips of
my friends mother at
a dinner party.
YOUR FATHER LIFTED
THE DINGY OFF
YOU LIKE HE WAS SUPERMAN
she says
HE HELD IT OVER HIS HEAD AND THREW IT
ACROSS THE WAVES
THEN HE SCOOPED YOU
FROM THE FLOOR OF THE SEA.
wistfully, she sighs.
everyone knows she
always had a bit of a thing for dad
derelict.
i left this
beach years ago
and i have not been back
the house i grew up in
is crumbling
down the road
last time i was here
was with a boy and
he told me he would
FLING HIMSELF INTO
THE DEPTHS
if i did not let him stay
i cried until
my throat ached
i should have realised
he was too vain
to get his hair wet