You come to rest in a swell of Plumose.

Lungs are a tricky business.

Before this, you surfaced

once, twice.

thrash of boots and blur of hand

fingertips outstretched albino starfish

his gold wedding band glints in

the sun

The motor frantic overhead.

Corkscrew through the sinus cavity.

A jungle of nerves.

the air between screams pounding

echo of pulse shredded remains of

jellyfish from a motorboat and after

the gulls

Your brain grows dumber. Sometimes shells

are just shells; their spirals

no longer a continuum. There’s prophecy

under this liquid ceiling.

sunlight streams through water

face a contorted panic feral

growl ocean and spit

filled mouth

A gas leak. Your five-year-old’s missing

tooth, a gap in his smile. Your eight-year-old

keeps three in the battery compartment

of her digital camera. She rattles it to hear

the clinking of battered and broken teeth.

caviar pop of fluid mosquito bites

chicken pocks nipples dipped into

hungry mouths bubbles float lazily

from lips

The Plumose gardens aren’t as beautiful

as the last time. The visibility is bad.

The cauliflower plants are grey and sickly.

You stroke the spaghetti-shaped animal.

This is not good diver etiquette.

It will be fifteen minutes before they find you.

grief thumbs his eyes blind

uncompromising the stilted measure

of goodness blue sky and stillness

mirrors that stretch and elongate the

face her slippery hand through his

the sun shines the gulls are lazy

everything is the same

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