Jen Webb
The Possibilities of Water
When the sea scolds the rocks, when the sea caresses the rocks, when you stand on the rocks and hold your nerve no matter the angle of the waves or how the water reaches for you—this is your home; expect no grace; it’s you, and your unending love, and the inquisitive sea.
White hands. White masks. You are far below the surface, and all is refraction, all confound. Lines break at unlikely points. There’s the smell of teeth, burning. Salt in your eyes. There’s a man too close, asking questions you can’t fathom. He is making the shapes of sounds. His mouth opens and closes silently, a fish out of water. Is it oh, you ask him, is it ell? He makes the sign of the hangman and turns, slowly, his back toward you.
Lower the sounding line. Feed it fathom by fathom into the water. Each knot calls its mark as it passes the palm of your hand. Deeper and deeper, the lead seeks out the depths, swaying. We are taking soundings, we are calling the deep. We will not run aground.
Frayed fabric, scrunched. It’s wadding dropped by a surgeon, I say, and you say no, it’s a relic from some celebrity tomb. You lift it, carefully, and examine it. Like it might know what happened between us last night. It’s the corner of my dress that you tore, isn’t it? I don’t mean to break things, you say. But in your unlucky hand, only fragments survive.
You fly, without engines or wings, the way dreams fly: in fragments, the way ash swirls in the sudden breeze. You are making good your escape, picturing a future of absolute quiet. There is no turning back, not now you’ve made your move.