Vishal Dutia

In their proverbs, the Sumerians quoted Fox as saying — on having pissed

into the sea — All the ocean is now my urine! Now, hang on there girl.

I want to get a handle on your homeopathic incontinent ways,

because I think you may be onto something. Firstly, what kind of fox

are you that approaches the shore; no hen house to bother, no brambles

to scoff? No line of emerald shit to booby-trap the garden with?

Perhaps wherever we are, you are; so why not the beach? What promise

did the salt ocean offer you, or appear to? Cured meat? Fish? After all,

once a month I know I reek gloriously of kelp — salt and iron and yeast —

an umami feast for the brave, or weak. Or were you worrying seabirds

up on the cliff — stopped in your tracks, unable to resist. A little splish.

The wind threshing your water as it fell — yellow, scattered, one or two

drops of which maybe reached. Or perhaps you were caught short,

coy on the beach, and entered the surf for decorum’s sake. All over

the world, miles from the sea, girls caught between poor sanitary

provision and a social imperative to be discreet find themselves

in a dark place, their skirts about their waists. Maybe it was

the king’s men that saw fit to drive you into the sea. But clever,

resourceful, you just thumbed your nose and learned to swim.

Paddled to safer land, much like we once did. Your charcoal paws

doggedly turning the cold pages of the sea. Pausing now and then

to pee, a comforting cloud of heat. And which child among us hasn’t

cast their blessing on the waves? Sent into the surf  by mothers, which of us

hasn’t rightfully claimed the ocean as our own, or in turn been claimed?

© VishalDutia