My father taught me to swim
by holding my small body
tightly  
and stepping off
the highest ledge
at Horses' Heaven,

indifferent to my pleas 
for release, to play safely
with my sisters
on the ******* below.

I had time to notice gravity
before the cold river 
swallowed us 

and as I fought
to keep him from slipping
through my stinging hands

he let go.

It was a long, dark panic.
I'm still afraid of the deep.

I wonder what learning to love 
might have been like
had I learned to swim 
in a shallow pool,

with a patient teacher.

You kneel to see my
upward angles,
catch handfuls of my

white
hot
words.

You smolder, plead;

I sigh
and seethe,
but

I don't know
this savage heart
within me, so I

breathe,
breathe,
breathe.

I'm not good for you.

I'm better at seduction 

than love; love is hard.

We still think
we're ripe figs, saplings
green and sweet 'neath supple
bark, hearts still sticky,
fruit still ****.

days brisk with drumbeats,
evenings spilled from riverbanks—
drifts of violet, ripe moons.

Before I was ghost,
I was real.

Your hands
brought pink to my skin,
coaxed sighs
billowed softly,

heart surge,
pulse and shiver,
rise, fall

and, later, laughter;
chimed rhyme on my ribs.

Now I am resigned to sad places—
dark balconies,
orchards brimming with moon
and lightless bedrooms,

clinging fast to strangers
begging
*make me real
make me real.