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