Selkie Wife - poem, PG13
Mar. 21st, 2013 09:15 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
tigriswolfTitle: Selkie Wife
Written: February 26, 2013
Note: In my Fantasy&Folklore class, we had to present a traditional tale. As I researched my choice, the selkie wife, I grew angrier and angrier. Then this happened. The version I told in class was slightly different, but I kept one very important detail the same.
He found the skin
One beautiful day, midmorning and bright.
He kept it, of course, hidden well out of sight.
She searched and searched
And finally knocked on the door.
He knew her for what she was
And told her, “Be my wife.”
She agreed, of course.
Don’t they always?
(Yes, they do.
At first.)
He had work that took him far from home,
But now he had a wife to clean and
Have dinner ready when he came tromping in.
He claimed her at night,
This lovely woman who could not say no
Or risk her true-self destroyed.
She bore him two fine sons and a pretty daughter
And she smiled and kissed him
And always always listened for the sea
Whenever he was inside her.
(The sea, the sea, the sea
Roaring in wait.)
He never went to the skin.
Truthfully, he forgot where he’d hidden it,
Far from prying eyes,
As far from the sea as their village could be.
His sons grew tall and worked beside him,
Out on the ocean
Where the seals played.
His daughter heard the sea
No matter where in town she went,
And one day,
In a hole in the ground
In a box of stone and shell
She found a luxurious fur.
Never had she seen something so lovely.
Of course, she brought it home to her mama.
(Home again, my love.
Home again soon.)
One touch and she knew.
One glance and she yearned.
She smelt the salt air
And heard the wind churning up the water
And she told her daughter, “Don’t tell your father.”
Ocean howled in the words and her daughter swore.
(Years taken.
Will be taken back.)
She waited until the children were in bed.
She waited until her husband snored,
Barely able to use her before falling asleep.
She waited until the moon was high,
High as the sun the day she’d been stolen.
She waited until she could not wait a moment longer.
She woke him with a kiss
And he turned to her sleepily,
Stretching out his neck as he sought another kiss.
Never had she been stronger as when
She kissed his throat with the blade of the knife used for slicing fruit.
He choked, he gurgled, he reached for her with fumbling hands
And she watched, calm as the shallows, as he collapsed.
(They always stay
Until they don’t.)
Their sons slept on.
Their daughter met her at the door.
“Will you come with me to the sea?” she asked,
Home warm in her hands.
“I’ll come with you to the shore,” her daughter said,
Crashing waves loud in her ears.
(Home again, home again,
Home again soon.)
She tore off a woman’s nightclothes;
She kicked away a woman’s shoes.
She threw all trappings of a woman’s life away.
Her daughter watched and stayed silent
Until they both stood in the sea,
Her skin around her shoulders
About to make her whole again.
“Wait,” her daughter said, reaching for her.
“I’ve heard the sea all my life, too.”
She looked her daughter in the eye
And the girl asked, “Am I like you?”
(Freed, freedom, free
Warm waters, cold waters, coming to me)
“You could be,” she answered.
Her daughter glanced back to the town,
To the moon high above the water,
To her mother, wild as the wind.
Her brothers slept; she knew her father was dead.
Waves crashed on the shore and a storm built on the air.
Her mother held out a hand
And her daughter closed her eyes
And together they dove beneath the water
Both as they should be again.
(Swim far from the shore you’ve walked,
The shore you were taken from.)
There was no husband in the sea;
She had yet been too young,
Still curious and naïve about landfolk.
There was no family in the sea;
They had all moved on when she didn’t come home.
But she had her daughter,
And she had her freedom,
And she had the entire sea.
“Are you happy?” her daughter asked,
Looping and diving and laughing.
“Yes,” she laughed in reply.
“I’m happy again.”
(Don’t leave your skin on land,
We caution our daughters.
Don’t trust in landfolk,
We warn our sons.
No one will fight for you,
We tell our children.
You must fight for yourself.)
She watched her daughter
Chasing fish and investigating whales,
And she knew, deep down where she still
Had blood pooling across the bed,
That her daughter would always be safe, always be free,
No matter the blood spilt upon the ground.
Written: February 26, 2013
Note: In my Fantasy&Folklore class, we had to present a traditional tale. As I researched my choice, the selkie wife, I grew angrier and angrier. Then this happened. The version I told in class was slightly different, but I kept one very important detail the same.
He found the skin
One beautiful day, midmorning and bright.
He kept it, of course, hidden well out of sight.
She searched and searched
And finally knocked on the door.
He knew her for what she was
And told her, “Be my wife.”
She agreed, of course.
Don’t they always?
(Yes, they do.
At first.)
He had work that took him far from home,
But now he had a wife to clean and
Have dinner ready when he came tromping in.
He claimed her at night,
This lovely woman who could not say no
Or risk her true-self destroyed.
She bore him two fine sons and a pretty daughter
And she smiled and kissed him
And always always listened for the sea
Whenever he was inside her.
(The sea, the sea, the sea
Roaring in wait.)
He never went to the skin.
Truthfully, he forgot where he’d hidden it,
Far from prying eyes,
As far from the sea as their village could be.
His sons grew tall and worked beside him,
Out on the ocean
Where the seals played.
His daughter heard the sea
No matter where in town she went,
And one day,
In a hole in the ground
In a box of stone and shell
She found a luxurious fur.
Never had she seen something so lovely.
Of course, she brought it home to her mama.
(Home again, my love.
Home again soon.)
One touch and she knew.
One glance and she yearned.
She smelt the salt air
And heard the wind churning up the water
And she told her daughter, “Don’t tell your father.”
Ocean howled in the words and her daughter swore.
(Years taken.
Will be taken back.)
She waited until the children were in bed.
She waited until her husband snored,
Barely able to use her before falling asleep.
She waited until the moon was high,
High as the sun the day she’d been stolen.
She waited until she could not wait a moment longer.
She woke him with a kiss
And he turned to her sleepily,
Stretching out his neck as he sought another kiss.
Never had she been stronger as when
She kissed his throat with the blade of the knife used for slicing fruit.
He choked, he gurgled, he reached for her with fumbling hands
And she watched, calm as the shallows, as he collapsed.
(They always stay
Until they don’t.)
Their sons slept on.
Their daughter met her at the door.
“Will you come with me to the sea?” she asked,
Home warm in her hands.
“I’ll come with you to the shore,” her daughter said,
Crashing waves loud in her ears.
(Home again, home again,
Home again soon.)
She tore off a woman’s nightclothes;
She kicked away a woman’s shoes.
She threw all trappings of a woman’s life away.
Her daughter watched and stayed silent
Until they both stood in the sea,
Her skin around her shoulders
About to make her whole again.
“Wait,” her daughter said, reaching for her.
“I’ve heard the sea all my life, too.”
She looked her daughter in the eye
And the girl asked, “Am I like you?”
(Freed, freedom, free
Warm waters, cold waters, coming to me)
“You could be,” she answered.
Her daughter glanced back to the town,
To the moon high above the water,
To her mother, wild as the wind.
Her brothers slept; she knew her father was dead.
Waves crashed on the shore and a storm built on the air.
Her mother held out a hand
And her daughter closed her eyes
And together they dove beneath the water
Both as they should be again.
(Swim far from the shore you’ve walked,
The shore you were taken from.)
There was no husband in the sea;
She had yet been too young,
Still curious and naïve about landfolk.
There was no family in the sea;
They had all moved on when she didn’t come home.
But she had her daughter,
And she had her freedom,
And she had the entire sea.
“Are you happy?” her daughter asked,
Looping and diving and laughing.
“Yes,” she laughed in reply.
“I’m happy again.”
(Don’t leave your skin on land,
We caution our daughters.
Don’t trust in landfolk,
We warn our sons.
No one will fight for you,
We tell our children.
You must fight for yourself.)
She watched her daughter
Chasing fish and investigating whales,
And she knew, deep down where she still
Had blood pooling across the bed,
That her daughter would always be safe, always be free,
No matter the blood spilt upon the ground.