Based on Roy Liechtenstein’s 1963 painting
I’d rather sink
than call Brad for help;
better to careen down
the depths of the sea,
past the coral, the pearl,
the mother-of-pearl,
where the diamond
of the sun doesn’t glint.
I know if I hollered his name,
he’d come diving;
catch me
in his big, greedy arms;
pull me
to shore like a goddamn hero,
like a master angler;
kiss me
and kiss me until I vomit
up the brackish water.
But then I’d be stuck with him,
a reluctant leech. Let him
save me, and in a year
I’ll be having his babies,
little Brads who call me
“Sweet Mommy” as they pull
at my hair and follow me
into the bathroom. Listen,
when it comes down to it
I don’t even mind
that I’m drowning.
Women drown—
it’s an escape.
And sometimes,
when we’ve sunk
low enough
we grow
these invisible gills
under our arms,
on the cushiony fat
of our hips;
we breathe
where we’ve been told
no one’s ever breathed,
not even our Brads,
not even our Fathers.
