Salt Water

The vision of him appeared like the maybe
of drowning, to a soul in the shocking embrace of an undertow and
I broke the surface of the dream in a gasp of being lost,
wretching, that traitor pumping salt water, not blood.

Fathoms deep,
beyond splintered shipwrecks, in ink-pitch chasms,
lurking with spinal taps of teeth and pinpricks of phantom light
which writhe and glide on nothing, as nightmares do,
there, I knew then that 
hope was cradled in the sunken caverns of my skull

Pandora’s prize as a chest,
In veins, 
In lips pooled like neon bright reflections in seaside rain puddles
In the rusted copper piping of my waterlogged guts
–It all leads back to the ocean.

Hope.

Hope that someone will succeed in the 
bathtub drowning domestic that he didn’t
because I’ll be damned to live like this
scared to swim, 
and coughing up salt water. 

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