If I say death is anything it is the way we dreamed, drowned in the lake, our hair thin as marsh grass and soft as waves alongside the shore, our bodies floating back to water, a thin membrane separating skin from river-mouth. If we survive your mother will count constellations, name us for stars. I want to say something about how narwhals drown in ice entrapments, open air shrinking as ice encroaches, teeth a twist, a triton. I want to say, through milky water, a gargled mouth—mercy is all we have.
“Swim Class,” Nightjar Review