Holding Air

She heaved, spewing water into a metal bucket. It was nearly full.

She tipped it, watching the water seep into the sand. From it, small reeds sprang up.

She inhaled the sweet air, the sea breeze against her skin, holding it there.  

But the water climbed again, pressing—a terrible stress beneath her ribs.

It rose to her throat.

She clawed at her neck.

Blood welled. Water followed.

The air burned her gills.

On trembling legs, she ran to the sea—her skin weeping, splitting into scales.

Behind her, the reeds bent their heads in reverence.