Kelp Me, Doctor, I’m a Female Echinoderm

The doctor asks, What brought you in today?
I feel like felt.
Spending time in the sand will do that.
Some days I spew mucus.
A poor heart can cause that.
And I’m waved away.
My questions a tumble
of bitten rocks I swallow
sure I’ve failed the test, my body.
Never once did he ask after
the sharp star of my core,
lantern bright, but my pores
ache and my bladder sinks.
In anger or hunger
I can clear-cut a forest
of seaweed, roll through every nori,
drown my sorrows in food,
but that only leaves me
a lonely urchin, to blame
for the sea’s poverty.

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Christa Fairbrother, MA, has had poetry in Bellingham Review, Crannog, Epiphany, Pleiades, and Salamander, among others. Currently, she’s Gulfport, Florida’s Poet Laureate and a poetry editor at Phylum Press. She’s been a finalist for the Leslie McGrath Poetry Prize, the Wilder Prize, and was nominated for a Pushcart Prize twice. She loves tea and avocados. Connect with her at christafairbrotherwrites.com, on IG @christafairbrotherwrites, or BlueSky @christafairbrother.