I didn’t really want
to walk into the ocean.
Though the breeze was warm.
Though the water was clear.
Being dry felt, well, so dry.
And I liked it, feeling dry.
“You can’t be baptized
if you don’t get in the water,”
said Rumi, and he rushed
past me from behind, leaping,
launching himself into the waves.
Then he turned toward shore to splash me.
“But the water’s so … wet,”
I said, with a wince.
And he splashed me again.
And he splashed me again.
And I did not did not like it.
I scowled and used my foot to splash
Rumi back, but he already
was wholly glittering wet.
He just laughed and motioned
for me to come deeper in.
I didn’t want to go, so I can’t quite
explain quite why I did, except
there was somehow a larger part of me
already at play in the waves with him,
and it pulled in the smaller,
resistant part until all of my limbs
were diamonding in the sun. The ocean
smoothed me with lavish salts
and brought jellyfish to bloom
at my side. Rumi, he had
long since melted into the waves.
His breath was the ocean’s breath.
The white gulls creeeched and keeled
overhead, and for a moment I felt
such compassion for that fussy one
who was tying up her wind-licked hair,
hoping to keep at least that part dry.