We watch for them to come,
hungry for contact,
the urgent calling to swim,
with the dogs of Neptune.

Teased from ocean to river,
tide-locked in deep pools,
baited by odors of stream cat,
soundless in grey-water prisons.

Sluggish sharks in saltless waters,
we rub smooth hands,
on barky hide,
weaving air and sea by touch.

Fins for handholds to ride,
tamed stallions of dark palaces,
an ancient tug to the soul,
for ownership of all creatures.

In the places behind the eyes,
where monsters dream,
we add our knife marks,
to the healed scars there.

When the season comes again,
we will claim our charges,
fingering the wounds,
made by the names,
we have given them.

Poetry Magazine