We watch from the water as they meet in the morning before the sun comes up. At the edge of the lake, our daughters shed shoes, socks, jeans, hair clips, hair ties, t-shirts, our frantic air-choking fish girls, we watch them run-trip-run half-dive towards us, wearing their matching one piece speedos, all in shades of swim team gold, every one of them a champion, and we used to wear the same color swim suit, and we gave them those breast-strokes, not that they appreciate it, we birthed them all sleek as eels, our girls untethered by waves, they slip under, we wait for them to surrender to the suck-pull of the weedy lake bottom, didn’t we feel the same rip currents that stroke their sleek calves and tug-tangle all that hair; and every time, our girls turn back, in the slippery light of the disappearing moon, together as one towards shore, and it’s on their faces, the weight of turning back towards morning and the sticky, grasping hands of children, the open, waiting mouths of lovers, our daughters are dragged under the hours, under breakfast and laundry and dog walking, homework-helping, husband-talking, all of it rising tidal, crashing over, and we wonder do our daughters drive by lakes, oceans, rivers, and see us waving, do they have to try not to jerk the wheel, to abandon the car, doors gaping open, leaving babies groceries dry cleaning, we wonder are they like us, when will they say yes to leaping over the guardrails, yes to shedding their bodies, we wonder are they coming home soon?
Ani King (they/them) is a queer, gender non-compliant writer, artist, and activist from Michigan. They can be found at aniking.net, or trying to find somewhere to quietly finish reading a book without interruptions.
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