By Ellie Mortillaro
in seventy seconds
in my grandma’s swimming pool i
sigh the air from my lungs and
sink down to lie still on
the rough concrete
one two
a leaf above moves with the wind and
the clouds look distorted like
through a bubble
maybe this is how they really are
twenty two twenty three
quiet has a new meaning
it is dense and
time is kept by the beat of the
veins in my head and
the pulse of the air filter
forty six forty seven
i say a word but
only air comes out
it rises to the top and
breaks the numinosity
sixty one sixty two
what would it be like to stay here forever?
sixty nine seventy
i always come up for air