the entire planet moves by water,
and you wake up
buffered by its currents.
Being washed ashore is gentle,
wave by wave returning you from your depths
to a surface land can fathom.
The house where you were born
is smothered by the sea.
around the empty cradle where you slept,
glowing like dreams.
The sea has chasms that run deeper
than your mother’s smile, and peaks
that cut sharper than her tongue.
It has devoured mountains
long before memory
was a flickering lamp inside our skulls.
The thoughts of the sea
swim in the shape
of algal blooms, of whalesong,
coral blazes and shoals of herring.
Its spine sways with the life
streaming through its water column.
The sea opens its mouth
to drink the river of your body.
Its rising swells swallow
transforming I am here
into I am here, dissolving.
Amanda Hiland is a queer writer who grew up hiking through the forests of Oregon. A Special Education teacher by day, she is also a major astronomy enthusiast at night. She spends her free time folding origami, traveling, and advocating for underserved communities. Her work has appeared most recently in VoiceCatcher, Epiphany, Willawaw Journal, and Cathexis.