For Christopher Lynne
Fresno, CA

In this basin still filled with rainwater,

a flock of geese skims my brown face, haloed

in an oil slick rainbow. Silt seals pollutants

like a casket, allows what’s pure to pass

through earth. A detective’s camera snapped

your body, the drag marks, and your phone.

You called your sister. Your voice cut out.

They said you waded into the water, ruled it

a suicide, as if gay men must go by

baptism, with a man’s left hand crossing

your chest, his right covering your mouth,

his weight bearing down. Remember, to hold

your breath is a conscious act. You don’t have

to die to drown. Inhale.