At the bottom of the ocean roils a carpet of old clothes
and Sedna, ill-tempered, with her hair in tangles.
Above the waves, patriarchal jets poison the sky
with upscale contrails, figure eights.
This time when some man deemed wise
calls to comb her hair, she’ll refuse
gin up the desperate waves and revel in the crash.
Like all leaders, his promises are full of trash.
Braided bribes. Lies. Lies.
A word was in the wastebasket this morning.
It might as well have been her name.
What father hacks his daughter’s clinging fingers
ships oars, rows and doesn’t look back?
Her metacarpals swirled around her.
On land, Sedna sulks in soapstone
goddess status being small consolation.
Her sea children, better prize, mid-size
when they sun themselves on ancient rock
she smells the dripping fuzz of their hard heads.
Distraction from the questions
that make her pull planeloads of fathers down
and bite her own sad elbows.