Breathe

This will be my last breath. 
My daughter dropped the birthday 
watch I gave her far away, in the lake. 
Our anchor hit ground, our rented boat 
rocks in rhythm, the search begins when I 
Dive.                                                                                                                                         Cold. 
My ears squeal.                                                                                                          Yachts hum 
from farther up the                                                                                     lake. The watch will 
be pink and glistening                                                                          among scuffled-up dirt. 
My legs drag behind me.                                                                     It only took five days of 
mojitos for every muscle cell                                          I earned to bubble off me and into 
the distant sun. Whirling around                               down here, suffocating, is the closest 
freedom I’ve had in a vacation of break      -neck springs to hot sand and away from my 
loves of a colder past. Rocks look fuzzy,    but they scrape my belly. My nose tickles. My 
lung phlegm aches. If I exhale, I will have        fewer seconds but I will feel calmer about 
it. Goggles on my left eye tight, yet                      the right eye is flooded. Microbes sneak 
between my lips as I turn up dust                                clouds in my search. Don’t breathe, 
I am not here to breathe, I’m here                                  so my daughter stops holding her 
breath. So she can enjoy hot                                            sand between her toes and never 
think that she’ll be an adult,                                                        or at least be this adult who 
hides from older flames                                                                       until he chokes himself 
with cold to find this                                                                               watch, it’s in my hand, 
wriggle up, cough,                                                                                           gulp again, I’m too 
small and it’s                                                                                                  too far up, it’s past 
me I pass                                                                                                            the bubbles and 
I                                                                                                                                                   Can 
Breathe. 

I hold the watch up. My arm sways over the current. I spit fresh water. She hasn’t seen
me. She’s on the captain’s chair, she looks to the mountains, her knees together and
my towel around her. Those mountains are the same peaks I told her about when the
watch fell overboard. She doesn’t know how much she looks like her mother.
My legs ache, but I’ll pause. She’s on the verge of comfort.