In the mouth of English Bay
the twisted neck of land opens
to the ocean. Here sketches of mist map
the coast. This is the place young women gather
to watch bales of turtles
die—on their way to sea. My mother
has been here before. She too
walked along this sharp bank
of history. This is the time my mother slips, gashes
her foot on shards of sea glass. Hip-deep in water, she is in
two places
