by Quintin Collins Husnee Mubaarik Say my daddy never taught me to swim. Say I saw the Atlantic, searched for humpbacks. Like bodies flung off a bow, say they break water. Say wet. Say a flood in my basement asserts how high water will rise to kill me. Say Brandon never came home. Say their name on the ocean floor. Say saltwater ate my ancestor’s bones. Say slave skulls slap East Coast shores in King Tides. Say I steep in these waters. Say I never stop drowning. Quintin Colli