Scorpion | poem

We sit on the bottom of a slippery sea,

Watching whales waltz like it’s nothing,

As if they’re flying. Their fins are wings.

We see what no one else sees: the bubbles

Flowing upward from below, the emanating glow

Of anemone’s shadow.

We’re dark creatures, spilling our souls into full bowls,

Overflowing and leaking.

The real sin is that we can’t hold our breath for as long as we think;

Our lungs are made of tar, marring our bodies, jarring the system.

If we hold hands, perhaps we’ll regain rhythm.

We’ll siphon ourselves from pearlescent shells and become liquid.