We dipped our toes into the cold water,
let parts of our bodies disappear.
The way one thing leads to another.
We slipped in more of our bodies—our feet,
ankles, legs up to the knee, our thighs.
It wasn’t enough anymore to stand on the wharf
and look out at the canal. I don’t know
how or when we started to play dead.
In minutes, we both lay on the coast,
allowed the tide to wash over our bodies.
We knew no feelings for which water
was a metaphor, but we believed whatever
we rehearsed was about something
being given, then given back.
Nicholas Molbert lives and writes in Central Illinois and has work published in American Literary Review, Fjords Review, Missouri Review, and Ninth Letter, among others.