Helen Gu

Selkie

I peel my body for the skin beneath the skin. Carcass
outside ocean. The boy I love tells me I’m beautiful
and I swallow him. He presses the blubber against
 
his face, hangs it in the living room out of reach.
I club myself for pelt: scrape fat off my body
with a cleaver, flayed out. The last time I saw you, I
 
salted my tongue with seawater until my skin
osmosed into my hands, spilling away. Flint flake,
shark tooth. You stretch it until it does not fit my body.
 
My mouth shrivels and falls away. October rainfall
puddling in your palms. Your fingers rammed down
my throat, reaching for an antecedent. There are yesterdays
 
but tomorrow: my cerebrum in your mouth, my
skin lining your stomach like an overcoat. Frothing at
the lips — the drain in the kitchen sink swallows us both.

Helen Gu is a poet based in California. Her work is published or forthcoming in Eucalyptus Lit and Eunoia Review. She has been recognized by the Scholastic Art and Writing Alliance, Bow Seat Ocean Awareness Programs, and elsewhere.