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Bluebelly's mother-of pearl
is valued less
than salamander's
calm indifference to air.
They say
she lives in fire.
When I was a child,
she was famous
for viscous clusters of eggs
which hatched black threads,
reborn as firey anphibians
while we slept.
Anomalous as the platypus,
the salamander is no kin
to snake or fish.
The pollywog, a tiny whale
transmogrified, does not prevail
against the salamander
in her shy repose.
With flaming skin
(a dying ember under
the icy sunlit pool)
and seed-black eyes,
when lifted up to air,
she steps
across the burning palm,
fragrant and cool.
Inscribed with immortality,
she is an amber charm
strung between water and air.
My mother and I scan
the sunlit shadows
for an hour, turning rocks
as if opening oysters for pearls,
until, at a bend in the creek,
a boy appears
with a bucketful the color
of ripe persimmons.
Grimy fingers
push them down
when they step softly up
the bucket walls.
Five cents apiece, he tells us,
with a steady gaze.
I rescue one and take her home.
I keep my five cent salamander
in an apple box
of cool brown mud,
a saucer of water
sunk in the dirt
like a tiny pool.
She lays eggs that hatch.
I don't remember anything
beyond that birth.
The salamander is of four elements:
Water, earth, air
and flame-the hue
of heavenly aspiration-
the second birth
she must survive,
becoming a sign. |
