Body of Water

By Debbie Campbell

For Mom

I grew from the seaweed-studded floor,

slick with algae.

I broke the surface,

a jumping fish,

a dolphin riding the break

of the waves cast off by a ferry.

You pulled me from the water,

from your blood river.

I swallowed the umbilical cord

whole, still wet with the

spray of Lake Michigan

because I didn’t want to neglect my roots.

The human body is some sixty percent

water, 46 liters.

You taught me equations for everything.

A wave: consider it traveling in the direction of x,

with an amplitude u and a velocity v;

u(x,t) = F(x - vt) + G(x+vt);

a transfer of energy.

You taught me our bodies crave

water, salt, cardamom.

Cardamom pod: a seed

grown from an underground stalk

grown from dirt + sun + water.

I read of the gill girl,

Leann, who evolved like a fish

in the wom

b. But she could not

breathe through the organs

like brook trout.

How often have I wanted gills

for lungs?

How often have I wanted

to return home?

Debbie is a feminist poet, mum, and lover of all things cardamom and water. She’s drawn to writing about heritage, science, nature, curiosity, and life’s extraordinary ordinary moments. She moonlights as a technical writer and yoga teacher.