Amphibians

We cough ourselves awake in the morning
and the stale breath we spew carries
fossilized dust, swelling
like your lungs under the blanket.

But remember when breath
thickened with moisture in sleep,
you curled your salamander spine,
and we became amphibians again?

Remember: how the water swam
silky through our gills and
we could drown peacefully,
a short throw to the ocean bed.

Our bodies made a stone.
We took to the slow descent
of lost feathers wading through air,
lightly lumbering above our heads,

we sank beyond the tow of current
to stillness and desert sterility.
Crab legs pinpricked our limbs
numb, wove us into a sand cocoon.

And down there sleeping was unspecific,
dreamless.  Our eyes drew coral curtains
to obscure the bowled bottom of the world,
the slick eely creatures we found there.

© Rebecca Geleyn