handfuls of air

I emerge from the amniotic ocean

gasping, treading water, spinning

disoriented in the waves.

Dawn warms my cheek, and the shadow

of a departing vessel cools my back,

but I don't turn to look. I reach out

to a thick rope rising

out of the water ahead into

the bruised sky. It swings from the bow

of an approaching ship towering

over like an aquatic skyscraper.

I grit my teeth and grasp the cord

and climb, arms burning,

old water falling from me

like liquid dreams at waking,

returning to the source.

I reach the peak and grab one corner,

legs dangling as I struggle to secure them

inside slippery crevices. I grasp

brass railing, and with one last

burst of strength I tumble

over the edge and onto the deck.

Raising my head, I see a blonde girl

lying on a lounge chair, eyes closed,

another chair empty beside her.

I find my footing and approach.

A warm breeze caresses my hair,

but just as I'm about to speak,

I hear a high-pitched rattling to the left.

I turn to find the source:

another girl stands at the railing,

stoic, aloof, alone, staring

at a comet trail cutting

a diagonal scar across the sky. I

admire her dark profile,

a black hole carved into dusk.

She turns and, oh, her placid face

opens into an expression hanging somewhere

between sadness and longing, dying

sun in one eye, falling star

in the other. She approaches

and places her hands on my wet shoulders

and lowers me onto a cushioned chair

and leans against my beating heart.

I hesitantly cross my arms over her belly.

Our breaths, hearts synchronize

and merge, and I grow drowsy,

and the last fraction of sun slips

below the horizon, and twilight blooms.

There is a distant scream and a splash.

Someone has fallen overboard.

I lift myself, ready to seek,

but the girl presses me down again.

She smiles and whispers,

Just cruise.