It’s just like the real thing, they say, but don’t worry,
you’ll be safe the whole time.
As the ship tilts, I wonder,
What the hell I was thinking? and Just how cold
is that water? and Who would want to recreate
a disaster?
My ex keeps bumping into me.
We’re both married, I say, but he just smiles.
Two teenage girls
on a bench ask each other if they’ve “done it” yet, water lapping
at their ankles, then one bites her lip and asks if the other
knows anything about birth control,
or Plan B.
A metallic groan deep in the belly of the ship.
They gave us a map, but I can’t find it, and I’m looking
for my son, I keep opening doors along a dim hallway.
My ex causally mentions he’s divorced.
The water sloshes
up to my knees, my skirt begins to lift, I open another door,
search my pockets for that map, keep following the crowd.
Do I remember how to swim?
I want my money back.
A few screams in the distance, canned like the laughter of a sitcom.
Isn’t the great, says a woman to her friend, like an underwater escape
room, like Carnival designed a historical attraction.
The water ripples,
jewel blue, the hallways a lopsided lagoon, an inner tube floats by,
I grab hold, expecting to fight someone for it, but no one else
wants one.
What are you doing later? my ex asks,
swimming uphill. I ignore him, hoist myself into the inner tube,
float by like I’m on a drunk lazy river at the water park.
Like I’m on the water slide. Like I’m on Splash Mountain.
I lean back, cross my arms and legs, and let the water take me away.