Her Husband Swims, Unplugged (Fantasy Challenge)

In an underwater bubble your words come pell-mell, tumbling blocks of sound baffled by the unordinary, the ordained. Silence is a lisp, a watery stammer as you pull my hand and I glide along an uneven bottom. Spoils of a venom hiss drift by, an armchair and a lamp for reading anchor the ceiling. There is your mother’s rosary, a broken pitcher, the pink face of her doll. I can see the sky but I cannot reach it; the splintered camelback shotguns fold like tissue paper around our hearts. A refrigerator unspoiled becomes a moat lodged against a clock. It is your grandfather and he speaks without a voice. A fish swims by under glass, becomes a rainbow when his hand strikes distance. We float beneath oxygen and speak in tongues as drums and zydeco, a wet pull on the sax form the second line. Safety is an umbilical cord to the stars, yet your arm presses into my back, circles my waist. We surface, spit and cry.