I wondered if the blood would attract the shark.
But even as I watched him through my mask,
even as I sensed his concentrated raw power that could be unleashed at any moment,
even when he turned so that he was
not just swimming but swimming toward me
my period had not yet come.
How odd that neither silent predator nor existential threat
made me worry as I should.
I should have felt the timeless anxious flush (that men can only know secondhand)
of near certainty that I am
not just late but late for a reason
and the burden will be mine to carry.
Oh and the timing couldn’t be worse because, for once,
I have opened my cautious aching heart to someone (else).
Someone who, because he is a real man and a good one,
would never put me in this position:
alone, squatting over a Mexican pregnancy test,
considering impossible possibilities.
But here I am, yet strangely calm because,
no matter if the love lasts,
or the blood flows,
or the line forms,
in this moment I am loved and have loved.
And that truth,
like a breath of fresh air 60 feet underwater,
fills me with an unreasonable peace
in the face of that