86 degrees and sunscreen streaks.

a poem about an unholy baptism. and my mother.

portrait by Elena Sai

we run and we stumble and we giggle and fly -  
arms sway gently like kites in the wind 
staccato breaths dissolve into laughter 
silken strands of hair stick to my upper lip 

„don’t be such a coward, let’s go!“, i yell as i turn around to look at your ridiculously soft, round face that looks like an optical illusion printed on canvas, framing your soul of angular beauty  

the lake‘s cold, hard water greedily clutches to my ankles and marks me with an indelible imprint, 
Vans soaked, 
Levi's clasped to my new tattoo wrapped in cellophane -  
ink & denim seams of a revolution that's long lost its purpose  

but we gotta keep that carefully woven tapestry on, don't we?
it's the only thread we've been holding on to  

i feel you trimming the wings of our existence   
so i open my mouth to scream - or sing - or sink.  

nourishing inhale, eyes wide, the sun’s sparkling on the water's surface
 
„don’t leave me“, I hear you whisper into my ear
it sounds like you’re humming a sweet lullaby -  

I hesitate but the water violently pulls me in, 
clinging to me like like a parched leech  

a parasite trying to free me from earthly bounds   

I stumble and I gurgle and I fall -  
arms crash down the cold, hard water  
staccato breaths dissolve into pinpricks of agony  
strands of silken blonde hair float around my apricot face  

I see the sun sparkle above me on the water‘s surface  

liquid laughter. rigid realm.

drawing by me.