My grandfather was alone when he died,
although my mother pretends he wasn’t.
She picks through his closet with
hands that weren’t holding his when
his eyes stopped drinking in the sun.

I take the small, yellow suitcase
from under the bed before she can
find a heritage that doesn’t belong to her.

My grandfather once told me
that his mother was a seal
and I believed him because our
blood tasted  like salt.
In the middle of the night
he taught me how to hear the ocean
hundreds of miles from the shore.

The bus’s exhaust almost masks
the smell of brine,
but it’s already been waterlogged into my senses.
The sealskin is warm
and I feel it breathe, its wet nose.
It fits me like a glove.

Onto salt seas
I am bound for to go.