Meriwether Clarke
I step into her like a spilled glass of water.
With all
the doors closed she is shimmering and fine.
There is enough
coolness on my bare pink feet to recall
swimming, the smell
of sunscreen and the sometimes wish to disappear.
In late afternoon
the waves are so dark and fierce I pretend my limbs
have washed away.
Except for the throb to not quite die, there is nothing
keeping me alive. I become
tissue-thin, like light in the entry way,
seams of dampness
reaching toward the ceiling.