June 13, 2012

by Elexa Rose
I hold my breath
And I can lower myself
Under the water.
I can swim
Or rather I can’t but
I can look like I am.
It feels like it should
And I’m like everybody else
But better.
No one can see I’m faking it
Because no can see
Under here.
Smooth lines are distorted
It’s all out of focus
Under here.
And the water is a little warm
So that against my skin
I can barely feel it.
I can move
With slow resistance
With little thought.
But my lungs strain
I can’t hold it
For long.
And bursting through
The surface breaks
Thunder bangs on my ears.
I gasp at air
For a moment
Until I can go back down.

Dear Rose
February 29, 2012

by Elexa Rose
My mother asked for a glass of water.
My father asked for a glass of water.
My sister asked for a glass of water.
So I collected three of the same
tall, colourless glasses, and I
filled them with cold water.
Balanced between my awkward clasp
I manoeuvred past the door, which
I should have left open, and
I knocked my little toe on
my way through,
jolting me slightly, I lurch
forward a little to try to counteract
the rock of the water, to
save a little splash.
Just as I arrive, I see your eyes
and I know, perhaps you do not,
that you have it all in your eyes
to smash, and to crack, and to break
the glass and the water it wraps around.
I try to put the drinks down,
on to the side table.