Tayve Neese

She does not want this origin, the sea

At great depth where the flounder’s
eye pivots, she is affixed

by blood’s anchor. Only slightly,
she drifts toward the west.

I know you say,—It is enough!
the length between the girl, her mother.

There are tethers of duty turned to rust—
but not hers.

Fathoms, thick as generations, hide
what she wants to burn

from cell and bone. No tide drowns it,
no brine corrodes this gene.

Stranded, she waits for crest, gust,
her salty scapulae denied wing.