Lindsay Gloade-Raining Bird

You finally surface, smooth as salmon, like you always do. Breathing just under the finish and I think for a moment that I could touch you without getting wet. Hover my hand over the skin of water just breaking, those ripples whispers of something more than movement.

—

In the belly of it, we were always backwards, and maybe now I still am. Turning, turning. No one’s broken rib.

—

I clean the dead flies off my new window. Reposition the plants. Throw up in the bathroom.

Grow up.