seaside

if i had a home to take you to

i would show you the lake where i learned how to swim

my father and i at the edge of the dock, my pink bathing suit

sagging at the crotch and threadbare

i would tell you how i shook, and cried, and  was so very scared

of the dark and glassy water

and how my father grew angry

i couldn't move, so he picked me up and jumped feet-first

into the icy cold where we bobbed like pale, bloated driftwood

and i screamed until he pulled me out

there would be the shore that we could walk along

not sandy, but pebbled and strewn with rotting kelp

we would stand and let the water roll up onto our feet

and through the fog we would pretend to see

any proof that i'm not still afraid

if i only had a home to take you to

you could know me better, and more completely

but i am more like a ghost than a girl

lacking history, defined edges, permanence

so when i lay on my back in the black of the water

you cannot tell me from the waves