Sarah Law

Night Swimmer

You are a pool, a lake;
blue-black with the moon’s glints;

the warmth of the day has ebbed,
and I cannot know your depth.

There’s nothing more I want
than to row towards your centre,

its surface neither restless nor settled,
neither named nor undetermined,

to let the oars slip under its skin;
and strip off language, ready to swim;

to darken and wet the unsure soul
still in its silk-thin costume of self.

But hesitation tips the boat;
tension’s meniscus. Is love underneath?

My stars have long requested your blessing.
Your answer is quiet as a breath.