by Montana Tiatia-Sefilino
I come in knowing where you are,
hunched beneath the
showerhead,
breathing hard,
swaying under the spray,
eyes unmoored.
I enter the tub
soft-footedly,
into the shallow water,
circling your ankles
until I become a small ocean,
and you, shuddering in my tide,
hold yourself hostage
with the strength of your arms
wrapped around your knees.
the window fogs over,
steam on the glass keeps crying
as if it’s trying to drown you.
and the tub swells inside me
then rests within me.
you raise your head.
mist softens around you,
and you remember how to breathe.