Althea

She’s haunted by a sense of futility 
in everything she does. I wait 
to be told I’m worthy. You knew 
we could never escape, caught 
by our hair under glass bottom boats. 
By our parents’ white-knuckled grip. 
I was drowning in the emerald music 
of fish when you pulled my body 
from the rocks, their song 
a shivering green. Mama always taught 
me to fear boys like you. To flee 
the delicate danger of my own ankles. 
By June I’ll succumb to the language 
of bruises. The yearning for the 
blue-haired girl to tell me her name. 
How she strings key chains 
into a necklace. We’re a little 
too much in love with objects. 
With hurricanes and bicycle spokes. 
Tonight the air will be soaked 
with honeysuckle. With humidity. 
The sound of mothers pinching 
terrified little faces. Of fathers 
who never wanted their daughters.