I turn damselfish, tend an algae-garden

on the ocean floor:

glint and hue. No, I’m only knee-deep

with my eyes already stinging

and the goggles locked in the trunk

of our car. A gold ring

loose on my finger, my fiancé

already swum out so far with gray hair

bobbing like a buoy in the sharp water.

I daydream myself whale: glide and leap

through salt-air to feel breathless, falling

out of ways to say no, forgetting to water

the potted rosemary withering

on the windowsill of my kitchen-

turned-aquarium. Behind this glass

I’ll never swim deeper, never find

a place to hide, even with curtains drawn

or the beta shining in his tank, a sinking

tail’s flick. I’ll turn bride

at the edge of Pacific

where tides suck my ankle bones.

I’ll learn to gulp breaths, clutching

a damp pillowcase against the pearl-slick

of our sheets, that almost-softness

of a dull morning torn apart without compass

or tank of air or lessons on how to swim.