Artemis, or moon joy
 

With each reentry, 

bubbles skitter across my face,

a gurgling echo of chlorinated

pool water in my ears, and

 

when I turn my face to breathe, 

I see a sliver of the waxing moon high

over my right shoulder, 

a clipped fingernail against the blue

 

porcelain of a bathroom sink.

It makes me think

of the astronaut

and her braids floating in zero gravity. 

 

Out her window, hangs that globe 

– aquamarine and rust, the swirling white, and all

that water. Now, the sun’s

refracted rays ripple

 

along the rough, pale concrete

seven feet down. 

A spray of water dapples

the surface, splash down

 

and lungs ache. One more

stroke - bow pulled taught -

and then fresh air, the moon

again, so far.

 

A gentle giant, the swelling

of the tide - even 

the water in me

surges towards her.