Between Bruises & Blooms

He knew
he could not swim.

That is the part
that ruins me.

Not the water.

Not the bridge
opening its mouth
beneath them.

Not even
the small body
stranded where
the earth had split.

It is knowing

he understood
exactly what waited below

and went anyway.

There was no prophecy
asking him to be brave.

No ancestors
whispering his name.

Only a child
who needed saving

and a heartbeat
in which he decided

hers mattered
more.

So he carried her
back toward tomorrow

and fell
into a future
that would never
belong to him.

Later,

they gave his name
to another child.

As if to say—

you were here.

You mattered.

You disappeared
beneath the water,

but we carried
something of you
home.

And somewhere
a kit grew older

because a cat
who could not swim

jumped anyway.