The first thing I can remember is water -- not a lake
or river but the rising level of it in the bathtub, the untroubled
sheen of its surface splashing over the lip of porcelain,
new worlds, new creatures, new routes of escape.
I am holding my favorite rubber alligator, the one I will
soon bring with me to foster care. But not just yet.
I have locked the door, but cannot remember
doing so. I can hear voices calling on the other side,
going back and forth, but do not answer.
I like the hum and gurgle of the water. I like the quiet.
But my older sister, convinced that I am drowning,
has scaled the creaking fire escape and kicked in
the window with her flimsy summer sandals, throwing
shards of glass across the smooth tiled floor.
They are like small jewels, aquarium green at their edges;
I want to pick them up and turn them in my hands.
We are fine, but we are both in trouble now.
Though our mother does not stir from the sanctuary of
her television-blue room, the permanent dusk she cultivates,
and does not bother to unlock her door. It is not time
for us to break that door in, its frame dangling
like a broken cross, nails bent downward. Not just yet.
For now, she stays in bed as though tethered there,
drifts in an ocean that is not quite oblivion,
steered by starlight we can neither follow nor understand.
We are fine, we are; but we will be in trouble soon.
