it needs to be watered to keep you alive
the nest-wound in your mouth
bioluminescence feeds you
inhales of rotting seaweed and pungent gas
in a polka-dotted swimsuit you drown
on unending paths and hidden
back roads
ever since the coast that adopted you
let you go
you reunite with crystal waters
and dirty waters
race through the night, to be
inundated with freezing waters and tepid waters
come every morning
if there are no shores for miles, you open a window
fantasize how kelp forest pleads
carry through abandoned coast guard stations
then your feet meet the familiar
endlessness of sea foam
you find yourself submerged in shark infested waters and
dolphin-inhabited waters
quiet waters and raging waters
each touch, closer to life


Ana Prundaru is the author of three poetry chapbooks and has placed work in Up the Staircase, Hermeneutic Chaos, Lumina and Kyoto Journal, among others. She lives in Zurich.

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