Held

There comes a point the arms can only plead,
When rhythm turns to something past the chest,
The body makes a sentence out of need,
And forward is a word that won't be blessed.

You thrash against a depth you cannot chart,
Convinced that stillness is a kind of grave,
Each frantic motion splitting you apart,
The water never asked you to be brave.

It does not answer, will not fracture, will not rend,
It holds the panicked and the stilled the same;
What you call fighting is the pulse that will not end,
Only the jaw, still clenching its own name.

Until the arms go slack, the kicking quits,
The back goes wide, the body sheds its seal,
The chest falls open where the daylight hits—
It held you as you thrashed. It bears you. Real.

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