We were told
we crawled out of the water,
our limbs budding
as needed. And this was why
we return to the shore, to walk in the space
where the sand is tamped down or the stone washed and smoothed.
It is a homecoming. Or longing. Maybe, both.

But you – you, we learn,
went from landmass to ocean,
sprouting fins and that magical ability to hold your breath
until not, breaching briefly, and then descending again.

And you grew and grew
to a size difficult to comprehend
except for in that one space we once were
where there was no water.
Some use the word giant, and, yes, that feels apt. Something
that can eclipse, or provoke astonishment – awe, which is hard
to come by these days.
You grew from feeding, from what flowed from the glacier –
a kind of mother, we’re learning, too. These miles, long and wide,
of krill and drifters – there,
for the taking. A feast that nurtured and prompted travel for more.

You would journey in search of, and in journeying, grow more:
the work and the accompanying hunger. Recall that time
we stood chatting and he said, Now that I’ve started running,
I’m ravenous, always. He held a bag of unsalted almonds
and tossed them in his mouth as we said, Yes, like fractions,
in a way. For everyone seems taller and larger-limbed, don’t they?
Stretching their legs out into the aisle, or leaving us
in their wake on a city street.

A burgeoning and boom.
Some of you as big as small landmasses –
islands and archipelagoes –
trekking and drifting, as we stand.
All because of this, and too, that: the two together.

# # #

Kelly R. Samuels lives and works as an adjunct English instructor in the upper Midwest.
Her poetry has been nominated for Best of the Net, and has appeared or is forthcoming in various journals including apt, Burningword, The Summerset Review, Kestrel, and The Carolina Quarterly.

Photo: Terri Malone