Glass Poetry Press

Volume One Issue Three

Dawn Schout


He caught me on an overcast Saturday, hiding in blue, cool water against my body, free. He announced himself with just a splash, barely disrupting the water, hungry, waiting for a nibble. He didn't lure me in immediately. Others were caught, didn't come back, or did but were never the same. But I moved closer. Took a bite. Sweat above his lips conveyed his surprise at my strength. Using every muscle in his broad arms, his knees bent, back arched. Fear made me resist, but he reeled me in. I started dancing, spinning, sun shimmering down on me, its heat stronger than ever, flying for the first time, unable to breathe. Settled into the curve of his hand, calloused, but cool, his fingers touching me as if I was more beautiful than the sun or water. How could someone not trust his eyes, blue as home. I waited for him to remove the hook driven deep into my flesh, to soothe my wound. His eyes studied my silently pleading mouth wanting to be stilled, thrilled, wanting him to take me, give me a new life. He tosses me back. The water stings when I hit the surface, is colder than I remember. I live in from the one I travel through.