I used to dream I could breathe
underwater. My mermaid self
was at home in the silky depths,
gliding along the endless bottom
of the sea. It was heaven —
angelfish, coral, creatures not yet
named. I could see how light broke
at the surface and bent beneath
the waves, dissolving in a layer of silence.
Now, awake and only human, I drift
away from the shore. I paddle in place,
pining for scales and a tail. Bubbles
come and go, conjuring themselves
as if to help me float. I’m supposed
to worship this life, the sun on my face
and the air in my lungs. And I do.
But I miss being weightless and free.
I miss who I was in the darkness.
— Leslie Waugh
