I.
At every beach   
a jellyfish has stung me. Red,   
marking me destroyed.

II.

We thought we were Poseidon’s small brown children,   
swimming off the coast of North Carolina. Bodies   
clamoring through the ocean with salted coughs,   
asking to see him, hoping our father-god saw   
our moms splayed on the sand and recognized   
them. We cursed the crab claws that nipped   
our pruned toes and taunted the clear ocean skies   
to do their worst. We dove under looming waves—   
asked seahorses to kidnap us, use their tails   
and drag through the shallows into seaweed forests.   
The day grew hotter and mothers beckoned us from the shore.   
We’ll be back tomorrow! We beamed, our bodies intact.

III.

The oceans left their scars on us; they throb when it is going to rain.   
I throb to become a part of it again, to leave my saliva in the brine.   
My mother shakes her head, knowing I will die near the water.

Header image: Sea foam, Hatteras, North Carolina, from the Daydreams series, 2024, by Baxter Miller.

Nimalah Baaith-Ducharme‘s work appears on Poets.org, Torch Literary Arts, and elsewhere. Her chapbook, Of Rootwork, was a finalist for the 2025 Alta California Chapbook Contest and the 2026 Robert Phillips Poetry Chapbook Prize. She holds an MFA from Emerson College and is a PhD candidate at Texas Tech University.