by Steven Sanchez
For Christopher Lynne
In this basin still filled with rainwater,
a flock of geese skims my brown face, haloed
in an oil slick rainbow. Silt seals pollutants
like a casket, allows what’s pure to pass
through earth. A detective’s camera snapped
your body, the drag marks, and your phone.
You called your sister. Your voice cut out.
They said you waded into the water, ruled it
a suicide, as if gay men must go by
baptism, with a man’s left hand crossing
your chest, his right covering your mouth,
his weight bearing down. Remember, to hold
your breath is a conscious act. You don’t have
to die to drown. Inhale.