Anne Gerard
On land I could see everything and it hurt: Submerged in the waves it was hard to be sure where anything ended. I closed my eyes, I swam out as far as I could, I did not look down. I scissor-stroked across the sky until my arms grew tired: I tried to forget which expanse was which. Above, the moon flared. Before she’d been full, now she was emptying. Light fell into the water. My body floated in and out of the light. When the jellyfish found me I was almost grateful for the company—finally, there was a witness to match the pain. Legs blooming with heat, I let myself float toward coastline. Where was I going? I didn’t know. I moved from one dark to another, emerging to find no bodily proof of where I’d been: My skin glowed so seamless it burned. Without you here, I have no one to tell me whether I am dreaming.
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Anne Gerard lives in Las Vegas, where she is pursuing an MFA. Born in Detroit and raised in the Midwest, she misses the Great Lakes every day.