Just breathe

Bubbles roll down my throat, a cacophony

of gasps, nails scratching my neck, 

salt between wetsuit and nail bed;

neoprene is tight, even before

I’m caught under ebb and flow,

under water, scales sparkling with

sun that breaks through the surface— 

I can’t breathe, even as bubbles

roll down my throat, mouthpiece in 

teeth, clenching plastic, gasping, 

nails scratching at neoprene, saltwater

engulfing every sense; it’s heavy, 

chest compressed, deeper, oxygen tank

pressing wetsuit against my back, deeper,

as I sink, deeper, drawn into the 

moonless midnight zone, and I 

just can’t breathe.

I've never been scuba diving before, but I imagine that if I did I'd be terrified out of my mind. That's exactly what I decided to write about in this piece. I wanted to capture that anxious adrenaline and the feeling of drowning in my own words.

A road claws my knees,

injecting years’ worth of rust and dirty tires

into my blood. 

I think of the small lives I’ve taken on,

and the invisible skin I’ve left behind.

I bleed red wine, the kind that tastes like chocolate.

It falls in brooks down my calves, and I reach

down to feel it. Like rushing, like waves, like the faucet. 

I limp to a bench carved of oak, arms painted a chipping white. 

I remember it black, but don’t question it.

It is in front of me, after all.

Air touches the backs of my thighs; I melt down,

slipping through the ovals that hold me.

I am reminded of a perfume I used to carry,

notes of musk, patchouli, the memories of childhood 

camping, the scent of rain on Earth.

I used to like learning obscure words. Petrichor rolled off of the tongue

like glass cups on marble countertops, clean.

My body is petrified wood,

with the exception of my heavy breathing. I am the oak tree, with and without carvings, 

with and without chipped paint, paint of colors I cannot see and cannot imagine. 

I ride my bike five minutes to the nearest Publix. The heat

blisters and cracks my back like peppermint bark. My knees hurt as they stretch. 

I see spots in my eyes, rainbow vision and blackouts. I grab something orange

and drinkable from the fridge and bend down to avoid falling. My knees hurt again. 

The numbers on the self-checkout screen illegible, I tap my card and 

sit outside, chugging the unknown flavor, tasting like a watered-down tropics vacation. 

I feel it slide down my throat, enter my organs, flow through me and burst. 

A true and cruel invasion.

When my right knee explodes, I decide a nap will be best. The bone is exposed.

I understand why we have skin. It holds you. Being bone must be cold. 

Under a white duvet, pink and Halloween throw blankets, 

broken air conditioning, 

I am in no pain. I am enveloped in the wonder of what is real, what makes it so,

what material is reality, and could life be a knitted sweater? 

I think mine would be of polyester. 

This was an experimental poem that sort of just explored reality and what is not real.

Tatum White ‘25

Layered Fabrics

Carly Cantor ‘27