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If You Jump on That Rope Swing
who’s to say you won’t hit bottom?
I feared splintering open, bone shards
across supine rocks, mollusks slopping
up marrow. You know, cutthroat waters
instead of silken kelp waving languidly
in welcome. What I’m saying is I can’t
bear dispossession, that moment of landless
feet when you lose ground and put faith in
fluidity: I suspect the universe will never
deserve that level of our trust. Not when
a pond might try to fill desperate nostrils
with water rather than breath; not when a
dead man’s float signifies both learning to
swim & failing. Imagine three things you’d
bring to a sun-dappled, deserted island, as if
marooning required careful planning, as if you
could prepare for your body in exile, your
body, limbs akimbo, as a sacrifice to the air.
Nina Sudhakar is a writer, poet and lawyer currently based in Indianapolis. Her poems have appeared in TRACK//FOUR and Rising Phoenix Review; for more, please see www.ninasudhakar.com.