Â
Â
is what anchors marine vegetation
instead of roots for drawing nutrients
if this were soil instead of sand, keeps it
Â
from drifting into an alien ecosystem—
like my mother's first time to swim
in the ocean, sensing salt water
Â
in her Betty Grable swimsuit, unable
to identify a delicate jellyfish floating
nearby. Oh honey, look at the beautiful
Â
flower was all she could think of to say,
lifting it out of the waves before my father
could shout a warning. Even after a shower,
Â
she missed her appointment with sleep,
hands stinging in that rented room,
an unwitting initiate of Neptune.
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Gerry Sloan is a retired music professor living in Fayetteville, Arkansas. His collections are Paper Lanterns (2011), Crossings: A Memoir in Verse (2017), and a chapbook length selection in Wild Muse: Ozarks Nature Poetry (2022), all available on Amazon. Recent work appears in Slant, Sierra Nevada Review, and The Midwest Quarterly.
