driftwood

My grandmother told of how I was born on a beach near a fire, she looked into the flames and could see they were dreaming about birth, with a mermaid lighting driftwood from a ship name coral's worth. The sea threw it's voice into a seashell, tides pushed into caves with sketches of women on walls. I told this same tale to my midwife daughter who regards each of those born as a piece of driftwood thrown into existence, chance to make a whole to journey seeking the mermaid's flame, whispering intimations of each and every name. Paintings on walls move imperceptibly towards the sea which brings the moon in fragments, do sketching's regret not being able to embrace the whole?-as women are partly drawn on the stone of feminism which is flashed in hints to species male. Now I have a granddaughter called sky from my daughter named coral, we watch stars reflected on ocean waters that are like seeds for a night expecting the ceremony of fertility rites.