Afloat
That hour I was the mast
as the future drew itself up around me.
I’d been told it wasn’t time,
but I flooded out on a half-hour tide —
berthed on this cot
submerged beneath glass walls,
not ready for air.
They cabled it to me like a diver.
My father kept watch.
My mother floated away
on exhaustion and drugs.
I gripped the plastic wrist tag like a flag.
I was barely afloat,
trying to remember how to right myself.
