Audrey Hall

Submersion

Brown clouds the airplane window
as I descend into Atlanta,
the city enshrined in electricity.
I hold my breath:

Months ago, I walked to the farthest edges
of a botanical garden, until the path went underwater.
At the swamp’s brim, an old boardwalk slumped.
A single traffic cone floated nearby.

I squatted at the end of the path, thinking,
if I were the Floridian kind of selkie,
a woman with alligator skin, I would shed
my jeans for scales and slip beneath the algae

to look for a greener world between boardwalk posts.
I hear only the movement of water, see glimpses
of manatee snouts, and I am not resigned
to the moment of touching down.