| here lies | the irony |
| her greatest fear is drowning |
| and | drowning | is all |
| she can think about | when she pours |
| milk in her cereal | when she brushes her teeth |
| in the morning when | she drives to work | rain |
| or shine | the terror of water | follows her home |
| from the office | it clings to her ankles | like snakes |
| or seaweed | she imagines gasping | for air only |
| to get a lungful | of water instead | every time |
|she drives over a river | a vision | it happens |
| in slow motion | car careening | over the side|
|of the bridge | sinking fast into water |
| that gets darker | until it swallows any trace |
| of sunlight | and she knows | this is where it ends |
| her body | will be found | bloated and grey | in a day |
| or two | still strapped in by the seatbelt | her last moments |
| she will repeat their names | in her mind | lips squeezed tight |
| against | the flood | Ophelia | Virginia | Ophelia | Virginia |
| there is a rhythm | in repetition | like heartbeats |
| like breathing | proximity to peace | and when she opens her eyes |
| she is on the other side | the vision evaporates | and yet |
| the ghosts linger | the bond of dread | she is careful |
| so careful | to avoid the edges |
| of the river bank | but her pockets grow heavy |
| with stones | through the years | sharp rocks |
| smooth pebbles | she picked up | from the past |
| and the water knows | the weariness in her bones |
| the emptiness in her lungs |
| how easy it would be | | to fill them |
–
Rachel Pittman is an M.F.A. candidate at McNeese State University, and she is a poetry reader for the McNeese Review. Originally from southwest Georgia, she currently lives in Louisiana with her husband and cat. She holds a bachelor’s degree in creative writing and English from Georgia Southern University. Her stories and poems have appeared in Gravel, Helix, Gingerbread House, and Miscellany.