Sea Lions
God works in mysterious ways—so they say (why?).
As a backland dweller far from the ocean, nestled
in the rolling sea-swells of these verdant troll-hills
so far inland as I am, I marvel at the bustling sea life
found on the elsewhere coasts, scabrous starfish
and amoebic jellyfish, skeletal red crabs and lobsters,
sleek-furred fat seals and sea lions stretched out
languorously on the grey sands and dark rocks,
herds of parents, children, and grandparents
sunning themselves serenely without even troubling
over what they’ll have for dinner—so close to you,
the observer, intrepid beach-goer, that you could
almost touch them. You want to touch them,
to stroke their guileless silken puppy-heads along
their scalps, above the dark tide-pools of their eyes
and their bristled whiskers. But they are wild animals
after all, and they may bite. You don’t pet them,
and you keep your fingers as a result.
I’m a silly person, and want to be friends with all of
mankind, every man and woman who walks
the misshapen crags of this planet’s surface.
But that’s unreasonable, and they should be left alone.
if you don’t pet them, you’ll keep all your fingers.
As a backland dweller far from the ocean, nestled
in the rolling sea-swells of these verdant troll-hills
so far inland as I am, I marvel at the bustling sea life
found on the elsewhere coasts, scabrous starfish
and amoebic jellyfish, skeletal red crabs and lobsters,
sleek-furred fat seals and sea lions stretched out
languorously on the grey sands and dark rocks,
herds of parents, children, and grandparents
sunning themselves serenely without even troubling
over what they’ll have for dinner—so close to you,
the observer, intrepid beach-goer, that you could
almost touch them. You want to touch them,
to stroke their guileless silken puppy-heads along
their scalps, above the dark tide-pools of their eyes
and their bristled whiskers. But they are wild animals
after all, and they may bite. You don’t pet them,
and you keep your fingers as a result.
I’m a silly person, and want to be friends with all of
mankind, every man and woman who walks
the misshapen crags of this planet’s surface.
But that’s unreasonable, and they should be left alone.
if you don’t pet them, you’ll keep all your fingers.
About the Author
Sean Eaton is a queer disabled poet hailing from the hills of New England. His favorite writers are Amy Clampitt and Ruth Stone. He is an emerging poet with work forthcoming in Arboreal Magazine and Eunoia Review.