the old coast is rocky and long, jagged and filled with colorful and tough things living half their lives in salt under the icy Labrador current out of Newfoundland, and half their lives under the sun in pools at low tide
if you see a girl at peace in the sun, on the rocks, in the pools at low tide, look for a warm comfortable skin, the only thing she owns in the world
for it is her power to transform:
to choose who and where to be
if you keep it, they say she makes an excellent wife
they also say she will be sad all her days but still they say
they say it to fishermen but men aren’t the only lonely beach walkers, are they?
what use is transformation, to an excellent wife? what use is leaving?
whose hands but yours could her stolen skin ever need to feel?