She had held her mother responsible
for her birth. She was the fruit of a mad
rashness, and this, she felt, weighed against her.

Her father was someone her mother met
on the beach. They had sex. Beneath the beach
towel, her mother and father kissed,
were sexually aroused,
performed the dirty deed.
Never mind the fact that her mother
had only just met the man,
and had only, just, forgotten his name.
She blamed her mother for her being born.

But the fact was, her mother was Catholic,
and Catholics don't have abortions
and are ill-educated about
birth control–both on condoms and the pill–
and sexually transmitted disease.
For that reason, perhaps, she was born
unplanned, unwanted, but well-loved,
for her grand-parents took her in and raised her:
raised her to abhor her motheršs example. . .
Her mother, she was told, had gone astray,
and now she needed to repent,
to carry out her responsibilities. . .

But despite this lower middle class angst,
Theresašs father was the god of the sea.
It was he who had made love to her mother
in the morning light.
It was he who succumbed to a terrible longing–
the longing to possess, to be possessed,
to feel the rich fleetingness of a mortal's pleasure,
to lose one's sense of omnipotence
       in the arrow-shot
of ejaculation,
       moaning,
              kissing,
                     looking into one's loveršs eyes.
It was he who had fallen.

For centuries,
a god's mortal children
       were put to death,
       banished,
       abandoned,
for no one would believe
the mother of the child‹
       "She met a stranger. . ."
       "It was really the mayor's son. . ."
       "She brought it upon herself. . ."
       "She's a whore, a slut. . ."
       "Send her to a convent. . ."
       "Kill her. . ."

In ancient days,
when the sea gods were known to men,
and were feared,
men respected the swollen bellied
which were conceived
in the froth of the shore.
Heroes were born.

But now,
Theresa avoids the sea.
She avoids anything which resembles her mother,
and this troubles the god of the sea,
for how can she become,
       if she has no sense
       of who she is?
He broods. . .

But he can prophesy,
and he can see a time
when Theresa will fall in love,
not with a Catholic,
but with an African,
and her whole family will turn against her,
except for her mother.
Her mother will understand
what it means to be spurned,
just as will the African,
for he is descended from a people
who were chained to the trade-routes of the sea,
and the sea god heard their cries
in the bellies of wooden ships.
His daughter will gain strength from this,
and the sea god knows,
       as the god of the sea,
when she returns, at last,
to the place of her beginning,
he will give her the gifts of power,
and her tears,
       her tears,
will dissolve
              into laughter,
                     free. . .