By Cyndle Plaisted Rials
The cobalt waves, densely dark, hide depths
of blind fish who can’t see their subterranean brilliance, their yellows
their oranges their violets. Salt-fed flowers twist tendrils
out to hold me, back flat
to the bottom, beg me to imagine myself in the dark.
Starfish trace green paths to my hands, ribbons of seaweed
whose cold edges bring murky blacks and muddy greens
braid themselves on my ankles, slithering
in currents of sudden chills, underwater rivers
from the north, and just as suddenly, tropical eddies.
There are simultaneous stories in the underneath,
and cruel ironies—to be gorgeous
in fully icy dark, to have come here
in the first place, to be unable to leave, to be in awe
of chilling, slight traces on the skin.
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