This is the easy part
of the journey: our submarine
still at Sunlight level, jellyfish
bodies pressed flush
against window glass.
In this lifetime – we have just
barely scratched the surface
of the Atlantic, the tide
vomiting us and its glories back
against the beach in its ripples.
In swelling and pulsating sea.
In broken and breaking foam.
At the waterfront, my toes
dig groves into wet sand. Both
lungs expand with fresh oxygen.
My body learns to sing
a new song of survival, and
I’m growing gills in this
neck of mine.