They say that a shark will die if it does not

keep swimming. Invited into stillness

and silence, I notice the tremor

in my legs, swaying to and fro, dancing

without rhythm to an unheard tune;

the heaviness of tongue behind my teeth,

seething with swallowed words, unsaid:

Am I a shark, weaving through

the cold salt sea, sleep-finning in the dark?

I stretch my jaw wide in an open yawn,

invite my heart to do the same,

try to quiet the beating of my mind,

to trust the tides, created when you parted

the waters from dry land, to carry me.