Within my mother's womb,
the same salinity of the ocean,
like all little girls and baby boys,I grew gills.
But mine haven't faded; I feel them in my throat.
The scars sing, begging to be slit open.
I hear their siren songs of home.
They are thirsty.
When she birthed me, ma mère, she stole me from la mer.
(Funny how the french have a way with words for water comme pleurer et pleuvoir.
Nonnatives can confuse the two sometimes saying silly but beautiful things: J'étais pleuvait et le ciel pleurait.)
Je suis née. Now, the water wants me back.
My parents prepared themselves for the gift they were given
But my blue ey