I am haunted by her neoprene

   suit, the swell

of undulations

   while the ocean kelps.

 

In New Mexico I balked

   at white sun,

my fleshy calves

  trembling when the

 

puppeteer said, It’s either me

             or the seven

seas. I crashed

like a breaking wave.

 

My dwarfed heart could not be

 trusted, and my mind

kept saying, No ultimatums—swim.

 Now when I am

 

washing dishes or tweezing

  brows or grading

essays, I can sense

 the wetsuit grip my flesh.

 

My shadow says, You were once

             wrapped in rubber

skin, collecting shells. Then I

 remember that pale gray

 

night the schemer lured

  me into a pueblo

in Santa Fe, and how my

 parched mouth craved water.

 

Beneath a dark New Mexican

 moon, my scorched

heart gave in, but my

 head knew that a woman

 

with a mind like a lobster

  thrives in coarse

saltwater. She could spill her

   coins on the beaches of

 

Santa Barbara, inhaling seaweed.

 But my runtish red ticker

chose land, and now

 the water-ghost clutches

 

my wrists with her claws.

    My heart has grown wider, I say,

but her eyes are black glass.

    She pulls at my skirt

 

with the zeal of an abandoned

   friend. Sometimes

she seems ready to pull me under.

Watch me swim, I tell her,

 

gasping for breath, she who wants

to neoprene me back,

who points at the tides

   & says, Drown that house.

© 2022 Mehnaz Sahibzada