Poetry

My daughter’s birth mom dons a tattoo of a sea turtle—

          a premonition her hatchings would return

 

                   the same way sea turtles do each year

                            to the exact beach their existence began.

                   

                            Even scientists can’t explain that animal instinct—

                                        their internal compass tuned

 

                                                     so finely to their first breath

                                                              it’s as strong as gravity itself—

           

                                                              the pull of the moon and position of stars

                                                    guiding them back to that very first feeling of home.

 

                                       Nature hardwired a map as they struggle to survive,

                               tiny bodies tossed beneath a blanket of black waves.

 

                   Still, everyone wants to believe they have a choice

      to swim home or push forward—

 

      that if they really wanted, they could

wash upon a new shore, conceive a new line out.