lying down in the bath makes the water

slop over the side of the tub

and spill onto the carpet

I close my eyes regardless,

the tip of my nose just

            peeking

            out

from under

the milky surface.

My body is unknown to me;

it is not

mine, anymore,

but the water’s. It always has been.

I am no longer a child, but I still dream of drowning

not of gasping, floundering vainly, lungs squeezing—

but of quiet. I dreamt of floating, face down in a lake, arms spread,

fingertips

               extended,

my lifeless body

displacing the water

the waves parting to make room           for me. salt choking

my throat, the taste of brine

filling my mouth.

I imagine the fish,

streaking rainbows of them,

nibbling at me until I sink to the floor,

not enough of me left to hold myself up

hair tangling into seaweed

eyes open, glassy white pools, the brown leached

from them,

melting into the current, letting it work me down until I

am a piece of

rock, crushed to clouding silt,

burying my bones in muck and mire

and the froth, rushing towards the beach—

I jolt upwards, bathwater

crashing violently around me, thick air

forcing its way into my lungs

I drain the tub and sit shivering, pruned fingers gripping my feet, holding myself together long enough

to shake the water out of my skull

to blink away the heaviness settling behind my eyes.