Silt surge
I stand where the map says it is dry,
my foot pressing into the dust of the road,
yet I am reaching for the surface
of a sky that has turned to brine.
The world moves in a frantic, golden light,
but I am heavy with the things unseen.
I stand at the shoreline, lungs full of silt,
and I find the words to confess my ghost:
"How do I tell the sea that I am drowning on land?"
How do I explain that the salt in my blood
has recognized the rhythm of the tides?
That my ribs are just a shipwreck
holding back the surge,
and the open air feels like a mile of water
pressing against my chest.
The crowd moves past me like a school of fish,
darting through a current I cannot swim,
while I sink beneath the gravity
of everything that isn't there.
I am not sinking into the earth;
I am falling upward into a silent, thirsty blue.
The land is a shore I can see,
but no longer know how to touch.