But if air carries the smell of
Salt, and a wife pulls off
Her sweater over a sea-limp
Breast, and the child in her womb
Is a fish, a milkloving fish
It's true, but only a breakfast
Away from the tide, and brained
To
sail
by catching the wind
In
his
diapers, and crawling the criss–
Cross waves on salt fours,
And wading out before he learns to swim,
And I'm the whale that spermed him,
Why do I fear the eggwhite
Splash of her wet
History, especially the spice?
I stood a
girl
on her head.
And so we were wed.
Alan Friedman
