If a milky bath softens
my skin. If I’m desperate to feel
a hand on my bare
 
body. If I turn tangled hair, tendrils
of repeated hymns,
dispersing: be still & breathe,
 
quietly. If frothy seafoam &
freshwater pearls & sharp
knives: dulling. If the girl held
 
her breath under water
for as long as she could. If there
are some places from which
 
we can never return. If humming &
pulse quickening & chest
rising. If someone took her. If
 
there are some places she’ll never
talk about. If there’s no reason
to worry. If the porch light
 
stays on all night. If there’s too much
fabric, the dress
dragging, collecting bone
 
fragments, the before &
after. If this happens
all the time. If there’s no reason
 
to be afraid. If we probably should
be anyway. If cracked
porcelain, no—black spot
 
on lungs, spreading. If harder &
harder to breathe. If fingerprints
on throat. If anyone can turn water
 
holy. If that’s what I told
my reflection in the fogged mirror: we
swim deeper & deeper & deeper.