SELKIE WEANING YOUNG
We remember the far-off song her precise voice
the way she walked when we plucked fare from the shore
We made weed-wigs out of seagrass
chucked sand crabs at gulls— She was
always making dinner or spreading mortar.
Father'd bring home nets and salt.
Her caked fingers tore at fish twine.
We left our prints in her joined earth wares
kept our hands in the mix she spread
Father returned to us each night.
We found where he kept her husk its skin soft like oil lost in milk.
We thrust our hands into the waxy bark
brought it to her & she
brought us to the beach
cut incisions in our small palms
told us to keep her clothes from flying.
We are marrow then a peach. Her form slipped between waves.
DIANA KHOI NGUYEN was born and raised in Los Angeles and is completing an MFA at Columbia University, where she was the poetry editor of Columbia: A Journal of Literature and Art. Her awards include the Scott Merrill Award from the Key West Literary Seminar, a teaching fellowship from Columbia University, and the Fred & Edith Herman Memorial Prize from the Academy of American Poets. She has also been the recipient of scholarships from the Center for Book Arts, the Bread Loaf Writers' Conference, and the Juniper Writing Institute. Her poems appear in Pool Poetry. She divides her time between Seattle and New York.