To Drown
It came over me once: skin,
bed, walls
writhing, wading.
I was sinking.
It seized me,
this knotted weight
keeping me from the surface.
Above the bed sheets,
the dim contours
of shifting furniture stood.
My breath
dangled
just over my lips.
The underwater voice
pinning me
sounded so distant
in its low animal moans.
That cry – the last
part that belonged
to me – escaped:
sharp,
instant,
from the belly, it struck
the throbbing darkness.
Like a wounded dog,
a yelp
quickly muffled by his hand
and he pulled me
back
down.
I ached so earnestly
to be far,
to break the lip of water.
I ached for air.
How strange,
the frantic
thrashing
of bedding – that feathered sound – reminded me
of flight.
