Field Trips

I loved the sea before I loved him—truth swam soft and swayed

in reef-light, where I should have stayed beneath the glass.

I came to learn their nature, the signs before the warning,

but his were buried deep and passed beneath the glass.

A jellyfish waltzed with venom I could have named,

but he was more vivid, more vast, beneath the glass.

They told us: “Sharks don’t rush. They stalk what moves.”

I thought I saw a gleam, not his grin beneath the glass.

I left no notes—just echos of a name that isn’t mine,

and parts of myself still clasped beneath the glass.

Tessa, you dove too deep for one so young,

not every danger wears fins beneath the glass.