If Not Ocean

Aggravated by some sort of storm
she pulses,
not woman nor sand. 
I can’t tell, these days, what
woman looks like 
or what her soft, seagrass stomach 
should feel like in my palm
moving between the lines that tell me when I’ll die –

I mean, dictating my life. I shouldn’t
ask these questions. 

What is a woman if not fluid
that drips through our fingers
and finds its way back under the waves,
gazing up, sea glass eyes, at mother planet?
Who will touch me again?
Who decides what body I will have
now. And in what hands. 

Who is a woman if not malleable?
This feels nice –
Imagine, pale turquoise aquarium silk
that never struggles
or fights 
or snags on jagged fingernails. 
This is woman.

No, 

is this living? Is this 
a mammal’s biography – or the unborn eggs
of a polluted grandmother shark,
neck tied in plastic, 
or is this a shell abandoned on the beach? 
Is this the right kind of solidity?

Hazel is a sophomore in creative writing at Ruth Asawa School of the Arts in San Francisco. They have work published in several literary publications, including Synchronized Chaos, The Weight Journal, and Parallax Journal, and have performed their poetry at the Youth Art Summit in San Francisco and 826 Valencia. When Hazel is not writing, they can be spotted cuddling their three cats, holding their python, feeding their tarantula, or rescuing insects from being squashed.