I Will Miss Our Ocean

Written by Nicole Leyberov from Jericho Middle School, New York, USA

She is beautiful, entrancing,

the sweet depth of her eyes like cherries 

with water beads that 

dare to dribble down.

She does not fear the ocean, 

but lets it envelop her to 

become one with its storms, 

and one with its tranquility.

Improperly proper, she is the muse

of my heart’s studies,

that I paint by marking every 

vein in my body, filling up with her.

But she is beautiful –

not handsome,

not white

not wealthy.

And I am a flawless, porcelain doll. 

Men twice my age feel my hair, 

and call it pure, 

comment on my fair skin, 

and call me wealthy,

tell my parents that I 

will bear healthy children

When she calls me beautiful, 

she compares the blue of 

my pupils to the sea. 

When she calls me beautiful, 

she compliments the natural 

pink flush of my cheeks.

She doesn’t call me breedable. 

She doesn’t call me white. 

She doesn’t call me rich.

No matter the amount of salty air 

I inhale, nose burning, 

no matter the times I run my feet 

through the water, giggling at its tickles, 

no matter how many laughs 

are pillow-suppressed

she will always be beautiful.

She will always be no one 

but the girl born below stairs 

raised to dust mine.

Her eyes: sorrow laden, genuine, 

her smile tinges at her mouth’s corners, 

her eyebrows form a crease 

like tree trunk rings marking the 

times she has cried.

She is beautiful.

Father chortles with friends 

when the news speaks about 

legalized same-sex marriage.

He says a word I can not quite hear –

it sounds like “maggots.”

She mocked my father’s mockery 

and I laughed like him, 

not fake, 

not performative, 

but dreadful… uncomfortable.

I am not a maggot–

we are not maggots

that feed on fresh carcasses, 

that beg for garbage.

Then why am I the carcass,

to feed those who should starve; 

the true maggots.

When I leave, I will miss our ocean. 

My parents will not understand. 

They will tell me there is one not too 

far away from where I will be sent,

not to worry about such a childish place, 

but I will miss our ocean.

At my wedding, when I can no longer 

stuff my mouth with food to compensate 

for the words I will never say,

my veil will be lifted off my face 

and the view will be a maggot,

when it should have been another veil.