by Steven Sanchez

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For Christopher Lynne
Fresno, CA


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.