My lungs fill with water, you

whimper like a wounded dog

& I rise to the space in your throat.

 

In the water I see mirrored faces

strung like pearls punctuating a clavicle—

the only long bone in the body that hangs horizontally.

 

Its Latin name little key rotates along the body’s axis.

I turn around and behind me is nothing.

“Is anyone there?

              come here.”

                                             “here,”

                                                                              I bend,

                                                                 twisting against

                                                                  repetition.

 

Something wrinkles your words

& the image shifts.

I put my hands in the water to touch my face, peel at scales.

 

I try to make sense of nectar creeping from a curved lip &

something that tethers my plexus

to your belly, hip to thigh.

 

I focus on breath &

My chest           anchors.

 

I tongue bits of rust & flaking paint from the back of my throat.

 

Confined in the dark pool, Caravaggio’s Narcissus gazes & leans

with hands over water. Both images are locked in a circle.

 

With one hand,                   my fingers dig into the earth,

a line of separation           between the tips. My other hand

rests on the surface,        [my] fingers already

 

submerged.