by Lora Pavlovich
You threw me into the sea and I came out, washed
on the water we held slipped between our hands,
salt stinging papercuts and paper heart cut-outs I’d
hung around my legs for anklets.
We threw ourselves into the water and we swam together,
my first time at the summer beach in years,
my pants clinging to my legs and your chest bare under the waves.
You gave me your shorts to wear afterwards
and I stood refreshed on the train ride,
thighs knocking against thighs and balancing together
as the car rocked back and forth.
Tell me again about the sea.
