I think of that myth:
a dead man in a tree,
dressed in his scuba gear
—wetsuit, mask, fins— is
discovered in a clean up
of a California forest fire.
Picked up in a bambi bucket
by a helicopter gathering water,
he was dropped from
ocean, through skies, through flames.
It’s a story about fate
and what we give to save.
When I zoom out from our love,
I see rabbits and blue birds
drenched and shining in the sun,
and me somewhere on that forest floor,
barely breathing, buried in mud
cool and safe, all threat gone,
the scuba diver in the sky,
for your sacrifice.
Megan Mary Moore is the author of Dwellers (Unsolicited Press, 2019) and the forthcoming To Daughter a Devil (Unsolicited Press, 2023). Her poetry has appeared in Rattle, Grist, and Contemporary Verse 2. She lives in Cincinnati where she teaches dance, dresses like a fairy princess, and writes poems about what scares her.