i.
seventeen, in a dripping wetsuit, wrapping
the stems of the barbed-wire daisies that grow
between the boulders around
your palms. sea-spray clings
to your bangs, sticks brine-like
to your face, crystalizes
on your lashes, and one white petal
falls into your lap.
 
why did you file down
your teeth, child? asks
the wind tousling
your hair. the daisies, despite your
best efforts, lay shredded upon
your thighs.
 
because my anger was cutting, but I
would like to be kind, you say, brushing
the flowers off your lap. because I don’t want
to cause hurt just because
I was first.
 
ii.
the tide pools sing, the world
has too many causes to hold
with a pair of human hands. you
can’t fight every war, especially if
it’s every war but your own.
 
the gentling of mountains is a slow
erosion of sharp, jagged edges. the ocean
bows to no human master, refuses
to be tamed. it is not your responsibility to mend
the whole world, not even all that is
within the grasp of your understanding.
 
iii.
you eye a trail of footprints
in the sand, slowly filling
with time and tide. go, the wind
breathes, plucking the daisy
petals from your lap. go. they
are waiting.
 
a figure stands in
the sea mist, hazy in
the half-light. they look at you, eyes
laughing even though their
mouth is masked. survival of
the fittest, they whisper. is
the survival of the quickest to adapt.
 
well, good thing your bloodline is
quicksilver, then, stardust and earth-bone
iron. sharp teeth and molten eyes, like
lighthouses in the dark.
 
iv.
the rain falls and each drop is
a knife, but with this churned up, muddy
sand you can’t tell if the water is
red. the clouds shift and even through the
downpour you lift your hand to a ray
of warmth. sunlight is tacky on
your fingertips and smells of
daisies. of redemption.