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Rock Pools

By Charlotte Webb

The ocean roared and sang when I was six.

I couldn't swim and crossed the rocks as though

death waited over every ridge, the cliffs

an open-ended question. What would it be like?

Like falling off the world. The sum of wonder

was the anemone, softly tendrilled, pulsing

in the tide. While dad pried oysters open

with a knife I sought them out. An anarchy

of blooms—pink, white—little nebulae, never

still. Kneeling, I'd offer up a finger to

the crown, thrill as the soft form sucked me in

held me like an infant's grip—stubborn

necessary. There I first learned of life's

flush darkness, the wildness of the will. Not

far away, the dust clouds rose, cattle

withered in a field. A farmer put a bullet

in his brain. What did I know of this? For me

the whole wet world was foaming at the mouth.