Shelter

You float on your back like a child who forgot
how to make a snow angel. With my toes

dipped, your dick drowned, if lightning
struck this pool we’d die together.

You stare at the sun and try
to remember your lover’s name. The breeze

curls around my earlobe like your finger once
did to tuck my hair back. It tells me to save you. It tells me

if I swim over and lift you, I won’t have to bury your body.
You keep still and I am a lifeguard—

a lifeguard who refuses to rescue you as you resist.
At some point, there are sandals on our feet

and towels across our shoulders. At some point,
I am driving tipsy on Shelter Island just

to get away from the dying party.
I’m yelling at you for repeating

what the GPS says, and we end
up in your grandfather’s home. I hear

pounding from the bathroom. You don’t
look, I drag you to the bed. You hold the pillow,

beg me not to leave. I forget
how to forgive. At some point, we sleep

on the edges of the bed. My heart doesn’t need
your punch on the bedroom wall to recall

its beat. At some point, morning arrives with the ferry,
and I am on it—a single lightning bolt on the water.

Jamie Colwell (they/he) is an emerging poet and writer from Long Island, New York. Currently pursuing their undergraduate degree in creative writing, they reside in Westchester County, NY. They enjoy drawing with graphite pencils, playing the ukulele, and spending time with their two beloved sisters.