the selkie hide

the selkie hide

the selkie hide is soft, thick,
tough :: as the leather and tar-sealed hull
of her lover's coracle

tender :: in a way
that only sleek seal fur
could be tender, soft and still

warm enough to loosen
the chilling grip of
the death-grey North Sea

but when she sheds her skin
to become for her human lover
what he needs, what he wants

her underskin is something else entirely ::
thin, like the whispery silk nightgown
her lover bought that dreadful day in Killybeg

(was it his way
to express his desire
without committing
his lust to words,
his hunger into tune?
it doesn't warm her
but then
it wasn't meant to)

her fragile underskin ::
it lets in the chill
of disappointment
and regret

every caress her lover takes
has an edge to it, undeniably arousing
and yet exquisite pain
all at once together

this parchment of paper skin
provides no shelter
no protective layer
that would allow her
to survive below
in the arctic depths,
her North Sea home

it makes her vulnerable,
desirable, while always
reminding her
of her captive state

as she paces every day
that ever changing
never settled
battlefield :: between the sea and the land
both and neither

thus bound to the tideland each day she builds a driftwood fire,
in a cast iron cauldron stirs
for her lover
his favorite stew
of seaweed, mussels
and selkie tears

(Saturday, December 2, 2000)