Snorkel by Carmen Gallo

translated from the Italian by Will Schutt

To stare into the deep, with a mask and snorkel.
If you learn how to breathe you can keep
your head just below the water for hours
and swim among schools of bream
and watch from above as the seabed recedes
so much it seems to double the distance
between you and the sky, and the world
becomes an egg—half earth, half air—
and you the border that divides them.
Facedown, your body holds the line:
here creatures that swim, there those that fly.
Provided you can breathe, provided you
don’t squirm when water gets into your snorkel
and spit when it slides down your throat.
You continue to float, not thinking.
Now the entire world order depends