SATURN’S POOL

Saturn’s Pool

By Samara Augustine

The water was 

visibly vast, 

but I was sure 

there has to be more.

So, I’ll keep swimming

past every landmark.

I’ll traverse deeper

through steep heights, until my feet 

can’t find the bottom. 

My arms will go 

sore and numb. 

I’ll move them until

my resolve does too.

There’s a sense of 

inaneness you only find

when everything starts

to look the same. 

I’ll be cold and wet and

North and shore will grow

invisible during the 

overcast winter. 

My lungs will fill 

and I’ll fall to sand. I’ll

mingle with minerals

and be reclaimed. 

The waves may push Me

wherever they want—

Though, when 

have they not? 

As I sink 

into the Earth, 

I’ll think of Saturn 

and yearn for its return.

I’ll pray for its rings and

for when they break. 

I’ll pray for spring 

and for shore. 

A dying part of me knows

I’ll undoubtedly find it.

My body will find concrete

in place of land, 

for it’s not shore, 

just the end of the pool—

that is what it’ll choose 

to believe. 

And if that’s not the case,

I’ll make peace with it,

and either learn to drift

or find strength to swim.

If it is, I’ll force myself

to walk upright. 

I’ll be ready for anything,

wondering if there is 

more.