When we were orphans
we swam in a brook,
bubble, babble; roil.

One midnight we swam,
you, me, and the current,
sweeping our feet from under us.

Cracks formed in the orphanage walls
we watched, naked but clothed
in water, shaded by moonlight,
mesmerized by those walls,
breaking and solid.

We ate an egg each
the next day, I gave you half
of mine; the swim exhausted you.

I said I had dreams
after the water had risen
from my skin; I clutched
you while we swam,
hands sliding over you but not
touching.  That was the rule
the orphanage had given us.

But I felt skin, dulcet, moist,
it would have been delicate, if not
for the orphan crammed within.

We were still orphans,
but we were soothed.

We rose with the next
day’s sun as two

orphans

at midnight, swimming.