I want to float downriver in a raft of otters—
belly up, pup nestled on my tummy
or wrapped in seaweed as I hunt
for lunch, to hold a small, sleek
paw in mine, nap the day away,
thick pelts protection
against the wet
of river.
I hope to come back in another lifetime
as an otter—odd since I’m a loner
in this one, poets tend to be—but
something about watching otters
slither and slide over one
another, romp
and wrestle,
hang in twos and threes and fours, lodge
spanning a stream, reminds me of what
I’ve missed—we ten kids, unmoored,
adrift in childhood seas, riding
solo, silent—when all we
wanted was to float
together holding
hands
