Never Turn Your Back to the Ocean

My mother is the sea.
Her fingers are chartreuse bulbous nubs of kelp.
Her teeth, brine encrusted shattered sea urchin bones.

When I was little she would massage warm coconut oil through my hair,
and the bouncy, tangled curls would sink down until the oil started dripping silently to the floor.

Now, she gently strokes my ears with her fingers and tells me

Never
Turn Your Back To the Ocean
But if you do,
float
like an upended buoy with its back submerged in the world's leftover filth
follow
like the last piece of driftwood riding the currents above a bustling coral reef
survive
survive
survive

Context

Yesterday my mom casually, almost gleefully told me a story of a car full of Japanese people trapped by tsunami waters. Rather than panicking and screaming, they quietly awaited death and drowned. It was her example of how repressed Japanese people can be. I imagined six of them, some hands clenched and some hands floating, waiting. I swore repeatedly and told her not to invoke tragedies like that in casual conversation.

Today I needed a full bladder for an ultrasound, so I drank water until I puked. I penned this poem in the waiting room to feel better.

The rest you should infer.