Far worse than drowning, I think, is the fear of drowning.
It is the fear that smothers- the water’s
a release, a gentle shock. Before you drowned me,
you wrote charms against fear on
my skin in ink made of crushed leaves and mammoth’s blood.
You always were a charming one, with your
soft hands and skinny limbs and
bright bud-eyes that you never quite grew into.
Your face was the color of August, and smelled
of orchids, the moon, and unripe cheese.