A Softer Kind of Drowning
       

I shower in the morning with my
eyes closed, the water hot enough
to leave red imprints on my skin. I have
dreams now—forever, the same:
starched dresses, pockets flat, three girls
staring from across a field. I am always
awake when they come to me, so maybe
I would call them daydreams if
they were not so terrible. Sunday
will come. Legs float out of the water
and blonde heads melt. In the
crushed red of my seat, I pretend
that waking to cold sweats and seeing
children at traffic lights are a part
of my divined future. Desperation
comes most often as a question, yet
who can resist asking: is this my life?

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Copyright © 2021 Taylor Zhang All rights reserved
from The Louisville Review
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission