No se metan ahí.

The rusted floodgates rattled,

water slamming the metal.

Feet burning, slapping.

We scattered like startled whitewings,

circled back, climbed the metal catwalk,

our hands pruned from the water.

The swirl by the gate’s teeth,

pulled at our ankles,

the current dragging us close,

shoving us back.

We dove anyway,

kicking hard from the metal

that groaned under our weight.

We climbed, ran, jumped again,

mud packed in our toenails,

back to the catwalk,

back to the churn,

water pressing into every scrape.

The metal shifted at our heels.

He grabbed my wrist,

sun-hot shoulder brushing mine.

His mouth hit mine,

all shock,

algae and carp,

canal funk on our lips.

He snorted.

I sputtered a laugh.

Arms everywhere,

howling—

we jumped.

Underwear dried stiff in the grass.

Pulling them on,

fabric scratched our hips.

Jeans buttoned,

shirts shaken out,

squinting into the sun,

skin tightening,

silt crusted at our ankles.