Schmuckumentary

I do not ask for the foam
to cradle me like a mother,
nor for the currents
to be a paved road toward your cabin.

No.

I want the Pacific to strike me
until it breaks my ribs,
until it swallows me where the light is drowned gold,
and my blood remembers its alchemy,
until my lungs cease their trembling
and learn to bargain with the weight of the sea,

until I strike out,
until I tear the throat of the wave with my fingers.

I am not a leaf;
I am the captain of my own drowning.

And when I break through,
violently gasping for air,
I will taste of salt, and lightning,
and the fierce, exhausting fact of being alive.