Water's Permission

I was thirty minutes in before I stopped

watching myself move.

My shoulders had dropped. My breath came

without calculation. The chlorine burned

the back of my throat and I didn't flinch.

My hands sliced through water that had no opinion

about the shape of them. Around me: a woman

floating on her back, an old man doing laps,

a teenager bombing the shallow end.

Nobody taking notes. Nobody keeping score

on how much space I was allowed to occupy.

For thirty minutes, my body didn't apologize.

The spine-language of sorry went quiet.

When I climbed out, I felt it coming back—

the air thinner, the watchfulness returning.

I could sense the smallness waiting in my shoulders,

ready to reassert its geometry.

But for that half hour in the water,

I was allowed to take up the space I took up.

My hands were just hands, moving through

something forgiving.