I would wade into water retention pools.
Breast-level deep and up to my eyeballs in algae.
I would cannonball into stillwater.
Brain-eating amoebas flooding my brain.
Through the nose, which they’d lace a tube through,
I’d beep to death in the hospital.
But, for a moment, I’d be Lady of Shalott,
or Ophelia, or any one of those waterlogged bitches.
I’d be part nesting crane, part nesting doll,
part standing water with emergent vegetation.
I’d look out at the world from my place under it,
and I’d die before getting anywhere.
Or via that breathing tube,
my tear ducts plugged with aquatic roots
blooming to padded lilies.