My Isthmus

She imagines a thread

coming undone from her skirt and tugs.

Pulls it down to its bare old origin story

and then she falls right in.

Swims in a maroon soft yarn

that is nowhere

and everywhere. Like the liquid

blood is made of.

Like the warm springs

on the island of Ometepe

where she couldn’t feel at what point

her skin started

and the water ceased to be

so watery.

She wasn’t on drugs.

Just sleep deprived

and a little scared

at how far away

anyone she really

knew was.

Small insects buzzed

outside her mind

all night and twilight

and midday and afternoon.

She rode her bike through

their swarms and tried

not to swallow

or even breathe at all.