The ocean marked me, a jagged bottle beneath
branding my foot as blood gushed, a sandy sacrifice.
Payment for the joy the sea would give me all my life.
Racing to the hospital in Dad's rusty pickup
a drunk driver swerved into our lane, head-on we flew into
a highway ditch in Santa Cruz. Ten stitches as I screamed
held by nurses with Novocain. And the nice familiar
farmer who had driven us to the scene had vanished.
Branded at a young age by Poseidon of the Pacific.
I learned to bodyboard, both terrible and glorious
but trusting instinctively that a God would never harm me.
Until I drowned in the muddy Russian river, or nearly.
Watching my arms floating freely in the dark deep of death
the first seconds were foreign, yet strangely comforting.
Saying, "But I was so young!" as my short movie played.
And then a man's arm as fast as a freight train
and as big as a redwood
fished me out and infused life into my corpse of a body.
I pull on my neoprene skin until I look like a seal.
A senior who still plays like a child because she was branded.
This is my domain as much as any sharks, so we must share.
I hold my breath as the stinging cold water tumbles me.
Laughter bubbles up and gets lost among the seafoam.
Salty lips as I swallow a wave as it forces itself.
Salt in every crevice, stinging my frozen nose.
Age has stolen my stamina, damnina.
The day I stop playing with Poseidon he can have me.
Take my body and lay it beside the crystal sea where He
will brand me with his golden trident. No blood or pain,
old age, or death will beckon.
This life is but a shadow of better things to come.
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