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Like a banshee, you wailed as I fell.

Perhaps it was your shrill scream that pierced the ocean and
formed the angry, frothing mouth that swallowed me.

Inside this snowglobe of aquamarine,
saltwater churns like clockwork:
tossing top, heaving bottom, displacing even it's own heart
as everything yields to current and undertow.

This is the rule of the sea: nothing stays hidden.
Soon, she will set me free.
Rising with the moon, I shall ride the swell of the waves
and drift toward estuarine waters or some unbeached shore.

Eventually, I will be found,
what's left by spawning salmon tagged as "Jane Doe"
until positively identified (by you, most probably).

You will weep,
and make a fairy tale of my life to the authorities;
layering lies to conceal how I was always to you---
a mere floater with hardly any salt in me.

So mote it be.
I sought the bottom of the sea to fulfill your life-long prophecy.



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