Maire Fisher

Here I breathe water.
When my heart aches,
water washes me with words.
They float me with meaning.
Tracey Farren

Breathing 

There are places where I do not
want to breathe, where the air is
cold, chilled by icy currents,
thick with things unsaid.
In these places words settle
in a fog, shroud  all light.
But here, in this quiet place,
fish-finned and fish-skinned
I slide into a pool of words.
Here I breathe water

and words glitter. With small sparks
they catch the light and stick
to me like scales, shape me,
tell me who I am
and why I have come
to breathe in this easy water.
I swim where my hands
skim the rocks that lie
on the sandy depths.
When my heart aches,

I bruised and sore,
too tired to try –
know where I must go.
I make my way here.
Unable to remember
which road to take or how
to find the quiet path.
Except to stop. And recall that this, this
water washes me with words.

I forget the joy of drifting
until the words come to me,
forget they are always here,
waiting for me to arrive.
They forgive my absence,
lap at my arms, my legs.
I recognise them again,
and dive, open my mouth
and breathe them in.
They float me with meaning.

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