Dreams of Drowning

We sat on the rocks at the edge

of the Mississippi, my legs

folded, yours stretched

towards me, your right hand flat

on the heat soaked rock behind you, gravel seeping

into your skin, your left hand moving from the air,

as you matched its movement to your speech,

to my knee as I spoke, you looking to me

for approval each time your hand got close, and I’d smile

the way I did working double shifts, too tired

to show my teeth, then look out at the mass of murk ahead;

we were 6.2 miles from the river’s deepest point, and I wondered

what it would feel like to sink 200 feet with you,

opening my eyes to nothing

but the brown hazed blur of your body. How long would it take

for us to run out of breath? Would we make it

to the bottom?