“Manuél Sánchez. Seaquake” by Lis Sanchez

Son of mine, little Borikén, butting
Your bloodhead along a blind chute, child who breaks
The saltwaters of your mother’s loneliness,
Cyclone spawn, spume and fury, with fins sawing
Your mother’s vulva, with eyes bulbing and mouth
Gawping, with seismic thrashing you push out,
Snag your mother’s cord. Your jaws snap
And with a flash that blinds her to her pangs—
And to me—you leap! into my hands, wriggling,
Perilous as sargasso weeds. Is it
I who dry your finlet ears, your fine
Barbel hairs? Till now I’ve touched nothing
As quivery as your skin, a current that drags
Me far from shore, closer to my drowning.