Mar is the sea
but not this sea
not these predictable currents
not these precise, breaking waves.

Mar is a riptide
the flow under the flow—
she sinks where they rise,
retracts where they push.

Beware swimmers, who use only your eyes
hypnotized by peaks cresting
and neat lines of foam.
Mar’s fingers are seaweed, the deep and the dark,
Mar’s whirlpools are hidden
spinning down coral shoals.

Seagirl stop stroking
in peak, crest, and fill—
See instead with your skin
with your scales
with your gills.