by Ava Loomar

I dreamt of a ship. A dinghy, really, slowly taking on water. There’s always a tradeoff to make it back to shore. A way to drop weight and stay buoyant. Off go the rations, oranges coasting like fishing bobbers. Off go the wine crates, the heirlooms, barnacle-ridden and pickled in brine. Until the only thing left to throw overboard is the anchor I carry cross-shoulder, like I am the vessel that needs mooring. It is, of course, useless on a sinking ship. The air is pure ozone, and I am counting the seconds between lightning and thunder, calculating how long I have to run from the consequences to my actions. I remind myself that even in death, the crab fights back, slicing the greedy fingers that seek to slurp meat from her carapace. Soon, I know the sun will rise like a bloody yolk. Soon, the fishermen will find me with their morning catch. A seamaiden of old, draped in sea silk, heaped in with the gasping mackerel. Aye, they’ll say, it’s true even fish can drown.

Ava Loomar is a 2025 Pushcart Prize-nominated poet and journalist based in Atlanta, Georgia. Her poems have appeared or are forthcoming in Dodo Eraser, Anthropocene Poetry Journal, Alien Buddha Press, JAKE, Eunoia Review and Sky Island Journal, among others. She is currently working on her first chapbook. Find her on Twitter @AvaSLoomar, Instagram @whosava, or contact her at avaloomar.wordpress.com.