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.
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