the warmth of the water instills a solace in me
soothes me like a mother crooning to her child
cleanses me like the tear drops of the Holy One
seeks me out like a learned lesson

i am at peace when the tide arrives.

it chases quickly like scorpius and orion in the night sky
i can feel the mist in my very soul
the fear of drowning is absent
all I feel is relaxation
i feel alive.

I invite you to the greenfield,
At the corner of hope and love.
It rests upon the hill,
Overlooking a lake of blue water.

We will be in the company of
A solitary nut tree, heavy with fruit,
An old picnic table carved with scattered letters,
And a chorus of bees whispering to wild pink and yellow flowers.

A beautiful sunset will cast its light across the greenfield,
While the sky shifts in confusion—orange, red, and pink.
A blue butterfly dances, delighting in the gentle breeze.

A playful squirrel nibbles on nuts,
While a nest of birds sing in anticipation of visitors.
Together, we shall let nature read our minds,
Feel our hearts, and speak our words
Through its muted language.

Hussein Dekmak

I sat by the fountain,
watching the sun play out
the last moments of summer
in the company of young and old,
each of us attracted to its laughter.

And a voice spoke out
of a corner of this retreated peace

"It's the end of something.
At least the start
of something ending.
It's the end of many things
that you've grown accustomed to,
that have grown around you
and within you - rooted.
And so you may wonder -
- will the roots simply die from neglect?
(Has that dying already begun
from past neglect? Discuss.)
Or will you have to find the will
to uproot them?
- will the pain be worth the excavation?
- will the freeing of them better free you?
Or will you one day be grateful
for the remains of what was?

"So, for now, carry the remains.
Carry the scars and the stains.
Walk with confidence through this ending."

I listened to the voice in the quiet.
And sat with the fountain a while longer.
Knowing I'll find the decision sooner
or later. For tomorrow, it was September.

Great murky tides so viciously flailed,
Clawing and gnawing at the grey rugged shore,
Washing up remnants of an ill-fated sail,
The coastline now littered with ruin and gore.

Bloated dead mariners scattered about,
Their ribcages open and nested by gulls,
Pecking at entrails as blood gently spouts,
Staining with crimson the ship's shattered hull.

The billows shall swallow the barnacled bones,
Crushing them into Poseidon's cursed sand,
Creating new coastlines in foggy unknowns,
Waiting for other doomed sailors to land.

A Stepmother’s voice cuts
through the campground:
Who left the cooler open?
Who moved the ******* cushions?
Her words snap the branches.

My father, just arrived,
hat wet with sweat,
stooped to tie the boat off at a tree,
met at once by her complaints,
her tally of our failures.

Her glare pressed hot against my back.
I climbed the pine,
legs scraping bark,
eyes fixed on the shimmer below-
anywhere but here.

She was there:
elbow on the water’s skin,
hair spread like wet silk,
eyes pouring over me.
Come with me, she said.

Where?

Down there.
She smiled, copper arm pointing to the deep.
It’s warm.
The fish brush your skin.

I remembered: sirens don’t save you.
They keep you.

She dove,
silver tearing water’s face,
and the lake closed like a locked door.

When she rose,
her shoulders gleamed like knives.
Laughter rolled toward me,
the same heat as the shore,
only sweeter.

Your turn.

I leapt.
The lake’s mouth closed over me.
Green-gold everywhere.
Her hair against my cheek.
Her tail’s slow beckoning.

I followed
until the light shattered above.
I almost stayed-
not to drown,
but to live where the voices could not reach.