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.