Lifejackets Take Up Space

you and I are on a boat that is not capsizing.

autumn has just begun to touch
the tops of the trees on the shoreline
and we are sailing straight
under a cloudless sky
wearing lifejackets that take up
more space here
than we do.

both of our bodies ache quietly,
we stare ahead and say nothing,
like maybe it is not the trauma itself
but the way we call ourselves healed from it,
with scars buckled too tightly
for either of us to sit comfortably here.

I consider the way you handle
the rope between your fingers,
the side of the boat,
the oar,
me.
a grip but also a pull,
attentive and powerful,
like you are anticipating
something unseen
to put up a fight with us.

it is then,
just as I have made up my mind,
that you smile slightly,
maybe at me,
maybe at nothing at all.

you unbuckle your life jacket
and in one motion,
throw it overboard
into the sea.

By Angie Gross

Biography:

Angie Gross is a poet, pianist, yogi, bookworm, psychology student and friend to all from northern California.