Gasp

Floating, suspended yet
half-submerged, mouth    gaping
where God has abandoned you.

White cotton drifting,
spinning in the water like a child dancing:
unsure of the movements
showing off.

You're an accidental blot on the canvas,
ruining the image
at the first glance
but somehow giving the artist
a new way of looking.

Up at the cabin
your father pounds nails into a broken chair,
his hammer echoing through the valley
though you can't hear it.

Your sister wants to swim so
she comes around the hedge,
towel in hand, smiling like a hyena.

Around the hedge, 'round the corner,
stop. She spots you
floating in the lake,
your father's hammering
drowning out the sound of her screaming
so your mother won't comfort the only girl
left in the dark.

But you can rest because
you can't hear your sister
nor can you see her
but you scream, silently, with her,
your mouth    gasping for one last breath
through the murky water.