Undertow

We met on the seam between two drownings, his cuff snagged in the kelp, my mouth lined with moss. He grinned like a man who'd forgotten the surface, held out his hand like a memory. I took it. We spun a waltz— water-logged feet brushing the roof of the wreck, the nape of our need. My dress leaked its scales, his coat shed pastured wool, each step stirring the schools of ash-bright fish undulating in rhythm. When the tide pulled harder, he didn’t let go. When the tide pulled harder, neither did I. What else could we do but dance, until the water conceded— we were breathing inside her.