Diver

Toes ridging earth,
landlocked.
The river hardens its icy sheen
that you must break. Now.
Beneath the splash,
cold floods you
till it is a pool of heat
pulsing at the skull's base.
You are a bubble of panic,
the weight inside you
growing more leaden.
Then you reach, spin, thrust —
the body claiming space
in an expanse where
it is only a ripple.
The rhythm of the breaths
not taken
begins to beat through you;
voiceless, you mouth
small pearls of air,
ascend in a slow arc.
Dragged by lightness
you recross the surface,
the memory of drowning
a springboard
to make you fly.