My mother, a grain of clay.
My mother, a mote of bone.
My mother, afloat
on her back off Dauphin Island,
arms spread, eyes closed.
My mother, the Gulf of Mexico.
My mother, not the seep
of oil from a pipe a mudslide broke
on the floor of the Gulf of Mexico.
My mother, not
an abandoned oil well.
My mother, the seep
from her mastectomy wounds.
My mother, her cells
weakened at the radiation site,
ribs brittle, wounds never healed.
My mother, a sand dollar’s hollow cells.
My mother, the dolphins
swimming in toxic beauty.
My mother, the poisoned oysters
I cook into the holiday dressing,
packed in my crabs’ fat, my tuna steaks—
no, why would she poison me?
My mother, the mangrove swamps
that filtered the waters here
where I walk, these white beaches
that replaced those roots with real estate.
My mother, cypress swamps
cut through with canals
for pipelines and boat traffic.
My mother, cordgrass and sea oats
we plant and replant, trying
to hold these foredunes in place
against Gulf waters swollen
with heat that feeds hurricanes
surging inland, swallowing us.
My mother, her salt,
my salt, our bonds
dissolving—