I sit on this black-sand beach.
Ebony grains newly-spewed from
Madam Pele’s womb
cling to sun-darkened skin;
feet and hands peppered with
her minute crystalline jewels.

I attend the monolog of waves.
They crash across ancient lava;
air-born mists kiss and cool
my grateful eyelids.
Here is time, before and now,
with and without me.

The salt sea-bouquet,
an organic transformation,
broth as old as the soup
that was my bed and breakfast
for ten moons in mother’s womb,
my waiting room.

The urge and need to breathe
not yet in infant lungs,
I knew nothing of this sea,
lay ignorant in embryonic bliss
and the wavelike sound of her
beating heart.

Here, overtaken with need
I suck in delicious ocean air,
tingle with pleasure,
greedy for breath
as though I haven’t taken one
for a lifetime.

This joins me to mother
as she was joined to hers
and every mother before her.
This birth doesn’t rest.
All renews or become new
in this constant making.

 

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