There is a place that is
like breathing in: the moment
of stillness interrupted by
the bloodrush, the gorging of air,
water rushing into the channel.
Take me back to summer camp.
Green oak trees, worn logs warm
by the firepit. Sunshine, crafting,
laughing, singing, splashing — take me
to the people. Grandmother White Wolf,
Otter, Red Deer – drown me in the depths
of belonging. At four hundred fifty meters below
the ocean’s surface, take me to the translucent
sea slugs called sea angels. I pretend
I can hear them chorusing, vibrating,
echoing in the deep sea. Using their wings
to propel their thin bodies forward.
Among all that darkness, I can hear
them singing: “we are not alone.”
—
Mary McAfoose lives and works in Seattle, Washington, on the unceded ancestral lands of the Coast Salish people. She holds a degree in electrical engineering, and when not working corporate tech jobs, she enjoys writing relatable poetry, reading, and playing videogames.
