by Lisa Pellegrini
Before he was a seagull
he was the bed of the ocean,
its stronghold and place of
penance, a tenderfoot of sorts.
Before he was the ocean bed
he was the salt that glittered
on the crests of rhythmic waves,
infusing sea kelp and sea urchins
with sustenance and secrecy.
Before he was the salt he was
the tail of a clown fish that
two piranhas wrestled over
in a claustrophobic frenzy.
He was fragments of barnacles,
scallop shells, and coral reefs
that fell out of a cave’s mouth
faster than candy spilling forth
from a piñata. He was the patches
of aqua that comprised the sky’s
mosaic quilt before the sun
was crowned king, after the
moon clothed herself in a
shroud of seclusion and sobriety.
Published 18 February 2013