She is twenty-two going on a
million,
diving
into the Olympic pool at four a.m.
She
is alone, evening and morning, the first day.
Goggle
eyes pop from her head, then widen,
more
frog than human, or so it seems.
She
does the crawl, the breast, feet flippers
pushing
her through the chlorine ocean
that
becomes saltier with each lap.
Monday
is moving on as the knife fish
turns
its head left and right, gulping for air,
before
it disappears into the green water,
lungs
replaced by gills, skin with scales.
Why
is it Tuesday? Where does the time go?
It
lumbers onto the beach with arm fins,
drags
itself across rock and earth into ferns,
lightning
now carving the sky into zippers
above
volcanoes seeding the primordial seas.
By
Wednesday she will cross savannahs and climb trees,
and
on Thursday walk upright with no prehensile tail.
Come
Friday, she will trade stocks and ride the subway
before
beholding ants from the glass skyscraper.
~William Hammett
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