I suppose it’s too late to be a sea otter?
To be in some otter place, some sandy inlet
where I may lie back and play a trout harmonica,
swaddled in ticklish kelp and buoyant insouciance?
I suppose it’s too late to be a god disguised as a sea otter?
To be in some otter time, some golden age
where I might heft my stone abalone-cracker,
teaching men to weigh wisdom heavier than pelts?
I suppose it’s too late to be otter than myself?
Kirsten Luckins 