There is very little that I can remember
about the rescuers who have tugged
my dead body to the shore. But the

drowning, that's the part which I will
get right. I have been reduced into
a box—all mouths to swallow everything

together. And the water is glass ground
into powder until each grain reflects light
completely it becomes invisible. My lungs

know the difference though; they feel
the motes of water-glass dig in. God, it
takes a very long time to die that way.

My mother screams when she sees me:
all bloated, a pale mess splayed on the sand.
In this life, no one has wept enough.

I can only wait for what happens next, slink around
in this world until perhaps, I become whole again.
The floating which has ultimately led me back to shore—
maybe I am supposed to mistake that coincidence as hope.