The words sent her into the rain, and the rain welcomed her
by walling to a cave.  But the rain could not stop
any more  than she.  Filled her lungs, then her throat. 
The pain in her right side was the stab of a gill pushing out.
A gill stabbed her left side as it, too, budded and bloomed.
Blind now, but beginning to see as she had never dreamed,
as eyes never could, she stopped running so her feet could join
and wave.  Her eyes swelled as water and greenery swirled
together a home.  Sound muffled, then echoed, then dissolved.
And she swam until she could not swim any more,
then she floated.  But floating became too easy,
and the words were able to break through the surface and head straight
for her.  For her, she decided to let herself sink
to the bottom.  Sea weed began to throttle her,
and creatures she felt but did not see twined around
her joined feet, then her ankles.  They were starting to strangle
her hips when she happened to open her eyes
and see that light had also broken through and dived
until it found her.   And the light was strong.
And the words turned out to be weak.
With her last breath, she pushed her way up
determined to find the source of the light.
And she did.  And it was her.

 

 

Phyllis Jean Green, November 22, 2003