I've got a seal skin hidden away in my room somewhere: sleek and dark and shining, waterproof hair. And when I put it on, my eyes turn black as gems, my hands to flippers--I'm a seal again. Now you appear to be a human man, and I love you more than any ordinary human can. Though your kindness could touch the ocean floor, you have no seal skin hidden in your drawer.

So I'm torn between cold waters and the warmth you've given me. I'm dreaming of the mussells I've pried open with my teeth. I'm lonely for the ferries that cross the Puget Sound, but I know that you hate the wind, and so I'll stay here on the ground.

One evening I slipped into that skin. I felt my leg bones merging & my teeth turn into pins. I swam the river down to the ocean waves and found some seals there lounging in their cave. They said, "We can see the dull blue in your eyes. That skin that you are wearing must just be some sick disguise." Though I cried out, the seals and their teeth tore through me to the human underneath.

So I ran from those cold waters toward the warmth you'd given me, longing for the muscles and their taste so bittersweet and frightened by the wind that tore the Tacoma Narrows Bridge down. I'd be satisfied enough to stay with you on solid ground.

When I came home, the bed was neatly made. You served me tepid soup and said, "Dear darling, I'm afraid that I can still smell the ocean in your hair, and your bloody body's more than I can bare." Now I was shocked; I was sure you would understand how I'd been ravaged by the water, yet uncomfortable on land. Now I fill up my bath with rocky salt and tell myself none of this is my fault.

So I keep running that warm water till its surface covers me, until I can forget the shreds of seal skin hidden beneath. I've been stripped of any dignity and run into the ground, but I'm sparking like a wire with this raw courage that I've found.