Breaching

If I can’t always breathe
like a breaching whale, still I can

sometimes be that animal,
back arching, long gray body,

curious eye. I swim past white pines
at the beach head and out to the bay,

no longer lost in the river mouth,
baffled, hapless. I always say

if I can’t have an apple,
I’ll take the word apple. I’ll take

transparent rings of water
that come to me, held breath

the pause before air explodes,
body alert and relaxed. The heron

that looks as I pass moves its long neck
while it eyes and releases me,

turns back to ripples and what moves
under them. I’ll be sea smoke,

lavender, fine white sand.
I’ll be the sea’s residue, foam

that flies in the wind. O, leap with me.
Rise from the water and breathe.

Barbara Daniels is the author of four chapbooks and two books of poetry. Rose Fever was published by WordTech Press. Her second full-length collection, Talk to the Lioness, was published by Casa de Cinco Hermanas Press. Her poetry has appeared in Permafrost, Westchester Review, Philadelphia Stories, Coachella Review, and many other journals. She has received four fellowships from the New Jersey State Council on the Arts.

Published July 15 2022