by Virginia Laurie

I’ve always
had
what
they call
“an intense and persistent fear
of deep
bodies of water, such
as oceans, seas and
large lakes.” I took
long showers before
I went to his house.
Have what he
called ‘musk’ after
an intense
and persistent day of
breathing in, out
the fear. I hear
water
running from
the bathroom
and wait. Propped a
little sexy, little
comfy, little
I don’t
know
what to
do with
my limbs
when not folded in
yours. I want to hear those
noises again. I want to slow
down. Slow down, you said.
I’m not goin anywhere,
Darlin’ you said. I said yes,
but
I was right. You
lied. There wasn’t much
oxygen left.
And I was
dying. You are
the only one
who
knows why I tremble. I
looked at you
and
understood why divers venture
past “the point of no return.”
Bodies pile, preserved
in blue,
and you follow them
down regardless.

Virginia Laurie is a visual artist, poet, and educator. She earned her MFA from University of North Carolina Wilmington. You can read more of her writing at virginialaurie.com.