Yes, I can be quick. Quick to guard myself,
quick to see the dark—the heart of which is open,
like the gaping mouth of the sea. I wonder if
she hears us, listens with her grains of sand,
not yet pearls, rough caressing the soles of our feet.

If I did not visit the abyss, how could I reach
for you? My mother, my sisters, my friend.
My father. The men I have loved.
How else could we call out, echoing, a memory,
a godsend?

We are made of the same stuff.
We keep getting found.