by mariel fechik
In my dream everything was glossy smooth plastic pool blue
and a terrier was barking at the moon. Your hand was slick
with sweat and possibly gin and probably the
last time it would hold mine. Sharks feel this way too at
the end of the night when there’s no more someone
to eat or love.
in that dream you were a fish,
orange and oversaturated
with the blue of it all.
in that dream you were also the water,
piling on top of yourself
in an effort to feel safe.
at the end of that dream,
you were the seabed,
littered with scales.
the water is pulling and blue like taffy, saltwater, and my arms are weak
where you yanked me out from under. I stayed too long, I understand,
but it was beautiful down there in the half light half breath half
lungs bubbling in the seafoam and I didn’t want to come home
you opened me like a grapefruit
and all i’ve done since then is
drip sugar and acid
but i still can’t forget your hands
when they peeled back my skin
how sweet they were
mariel fechik lives in chicago, il. she sings in the band fay ray and is a music writer for atwood magazine and third coast review. she was recently chosen as a finalist for the real good poem prize from rabbit catastrophe review. her work has appeared or is forthcoming in hobart, rust + moth, sundog lit, glass: a journal of poetry, and others.