In Too Deep
The year I learned to lie, then gave up lying,
I mastered underwater swimming – deep
beneath the white-capped waves. I dreamed of dying;
the ocean filled my nostrils in my sleep.
Daily, I plunged further, forced to hold
my mouth clamped oyster-tight. Half-fish, half-girl,
I dove through murky waters, bore the cold
and broke the surface faultless as a pearl.
But I had brought two men to fish one sea.
Their nets closed in, and each time I went down
I feared the webbing would entangle me
with all my secrets; I was set to drown
until I saw your lighthouse on the strand,
struck out for shore, and found you – my dry land.
Previously appeared in The Raintown Review
Index Of Published Poems