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by Bruce Jewett
She learned breathing from yoga,
disdains any kind of gear. Gliding
over pueblos of lace, rose and rice,
kicking along schools of blennies,
snappers and damsels, iridescent
slices and slivers of stained glass,
she hunts for crevices to wedge
and anchor her feet.
Her own water once broke for
squalling life; how so easy now
she can shimmer into greeness,
blend into verdant radiance,
allow hair and bone to claim
their citizenship of the coral.
Delighted no worlds nor stars
bind her, she practices descent
one bubble at a time. There's only
the tug of her son under a beach
umbrella, who waits with a towel
she will refuse; waits to be wrapped
in the brine salted breasts
of a mother he did not choose.