Irene Gómez-Castellano translation by J.G. McClure Already you know it doesn’t matter how many laps you swim today, how well you move the pencil of your body between the lines in silence. 15, 30, 54, it doesn’t matter. No one is listening as you bob your head, rhythmic, harmonious, mute. When you swim everything flows, dominated by your arms. Your tongue spits only silences. Wordless, you are beautiful and your hair leaves its marks above the verses of the water, not drowning in the waves’ enjambment. You like your smooth somersault, how it keeps your liquid body moving. The pool is deaf but knows to listen. Love this—the water lapping your smooth and lonely body, its tense marine joy. Words are anemones that blink at being spoken. You would drown them with your kisses. No one sees the dark calligraphy trapped between the water, the tiles glazed like stars. Stay under. Everything is beautiful, safe in silent bubbles. These thoughts of yours— they are so beautiful before they break, before you speak and they emerge, trade their tails for legs and learn to live ashore.
Issue 16: a publication of Rowan University's Master of Arts in Writing