I don’t know how to swim
But I know how to float.
Sometimes, when I’m not looking,
I wade out into the ocean,
up to my neck,
and I let it lift me,
I can feel squishy things grabbing my feet,
like the ghosts of bugs I’ve killed
trying to pull me down to the depths.
But, I tell myself not to worry,
because “they are just plants”
like the kind waiting at home
in terra cotta—
I think one day I will be stuck on the baked earth,
watching myself float away—
I go away from the shore
past the boats
and the clouds
and the stars
until I can hardly see myself,
if I am even still there at all.