There are two seasons,
Night, Day,

cusps of sunsets
that last for months.

I’ve seen the bones
of the sea ice peel, minke whales,

Weddell seals gasp
in the gashes.

We slip into the skins
of heartier animal:

I, a wrasse fish born
with teeth in its throat –

beginning my life pink
and white, males

must wait to emerge. I strip off furs,
slip into the fist of the sea, rise

from this Salmacis fountain
hide sharp, crystalline, heart

beats ticking in tandem, one
in each wrist.

KIRA TAYLOR has a background in both writing and science. Her most recent publications include Prairie Schooner, Southern Humanities Review, and Catamaran Literary Reader. She currently lives, writes, and work in beautiful Jackson, WY.