From Below

by Darcy Coates

Cove Waimarie bent over a table, a wash of wavy black hair hanging like a curtain over one side of her face

The black holds them in its hands. The void, beautiful, voracious. They want more air but there’s none to take, just the deep thick water. Skin turns white as they try to hold their breath inside. They can’t. The bubbles vanish from their gaping mouth. You watch as they drown.

I would lie down with you, put my arms around you, feel how cold you are as you roll, rigid with death, on the ocean floor.

Regeneration followed after death. Growth required change. Life was a constant battle of give-and-take, a bittersweet tango that demanded full participation.