Barely two feet long, its fur dries
in Hawaiian sun to a rich silken ebony.
Blue-black eyes hide behind
rings of warm white sand.
Its mother rolls over on her side,
uncovering a glaucous belly,
four budding nipples.
The pup twists onto its back to nurse,
a gentle sucking, soft as waves
retreating from the beach.
Then, it folds up under its mother’s chin
like a beard, crosses its flippers
across its chest, and sleeps
the sleep of love and safety.
The tide ebbs
but all else flows.
About John Grey
John Grey is an Australian poet, US resident. He was recently published in the Tau, Studio One and Columbia Review with work upcoming in Naugatuck River Review, Examined Life Journal and Midwest Quarterly.
