high water

by Cheryl A. Ossola

When you said you wanted to see Venice 

in the acqua alta you didn’t bargain 

on slogging a mile to the train station,

suitcase held high, lactic acid burning, 

past trapped traghetti bobbing at bridges,

floating in the liminal space between 

piazza and canal where turquoise color shifts 

opaque to transparent, begging you to walk

(in the way heights dare you to jump) 

that shimmering edge, risk

slipping beneath the surface.

Instead you slog far from the edge, 

past shops kitted with pumps and doorway dams, 

shopkeepers whose faces say life goes on.

Water grabs at your feet, sucks at your knees, 

urging you to give in,

reminding you how desirable it is to stay grounded.

With each step you break free, 

contemplating alternatives,

destinations romantic, transitional, dead-end.

You want them all.

On the platform, water pools at your feet. 

You like the chill dampness, the clutch of fabric

like a lover’s embrace.

The trains wait. You are expected 

somewhere, sometime. Does it matter? 

You think only of depths, of possibilities.

Cheryl A. Ossola lives in a 15th-century ex-convent in Italy with her dog and too many books. Her work appears in boats against the current, Fourteen Hills, Switchback, Writers Digest, After the Pause, and the anthology Speak and Speak Again, among other publications. Her Nautilus Award-winning debut novel, The Wild Impossibility (Regal House Publishing), came out in 2019. More at italicus.substack.com and cherylaossola.com.