Underwater Photography

By Elizabeth Oxley


You rose finless from the ocean
of my belly. What was it like

to breathe through a cord?
You were a coastline of silt:

pale knobs of your fists,
chin's narrow bluff. At ease

in the dark, your heels claimed
new ground. My breasts ached—

they were your first patriots.
How loud was the rending,

water's gush when it came?
You still won't say. I betrayed you

into the light, made you
a four-limbed nation.

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Elizabeth Oxley - Elizabeth Oxley is a poet residing in the American West. Mother to a teenage daughter, she writes often about the challenges, triumphs, and terrific art of being a woman. Her poetry has appeared in The Poetry Review, Ruminate, Peregrine, Boneshaker: A Bicycling Almanac, and The Colorado Independent. She keeps a small online home at www.ElizabethOxley.com.