At night, I slide into pale,
my shell fading and surging,
its own perfect camouflage.
Come morning, I use my mouth
to shift mud, sift sludge,
and feed on waste and algae.
I am both gilled and lunged,
the tide line a threshold I cross
sideways, pulled by unevenness.
What I lose, I remake:
this hand, impossible to
remove. I have wrenched it
off only to find what remains
bloating, swelling, rising
to keep me playing, a new
smaller mate blossoming
at the ragged site of removal.
What would you give,
to always be what you are,
no matter the damage?
Maggie Blake Bailey has poems published or forthcoming in The San Pedro River Review, Tar River, Tinderbox, and elsewhere. Her chapbook, Bury the Lede, is available from Finishing Line Press and at Amazon.com. She has been nominated for The Pushcart and Best of the Net. During the year, she teaches high school English in Atlanta, Georgia.