I was conceived in a shack by the sea, its shingles bleached and beaten nickel gray. There were waves that day washing over the foundations of the old saltworks. My father told me this, his eyes the blue of a still inlet after rain, and I can imagine such a thing. My rising like a cry from my father’s throat, breaking free of his longing and swimming, all head and eager tail, all salty, fishy human need — I swim into the dark and heavy egg of my mother. This is me. My mother’s eyes were green as ocean weeds, but I did not, of course, see them open wide, did not see the pupils swell deep and black as tidal pools. A blade of sea grass swirled oblivious to the wind heavy with the rank sulfur scent of low tide.