Permission by Jordan Hirsch
30 lines
Issue 10 (Spring 2026)
She took me out in a boat to meet her mama,
and I was anxious the water would swallow me whole.
Me–without the fins of her ancestors that gleamed
green in the sunlight, droplets amplifying the depth of their color.
Oars parted algae, and I watched the surface for hands,
watched the hands for ring fingers, watched the ring fingers
for bands of coral to know if I had chosen correctly,
my decision searing my leg through the fabric of my pocket.
Her legs–long from hip, whose curve perfectly fit
my palm, to bony ankle that nestled between my own
as we’d fall asleep—she got those from her father.
We’d left him on shore, waiting. This was women’s business.
She stopped rowing, and it was no time at all
until the surface of the lake broke, my heart
in my throat, beating faster than the song
they were singing. She offered me a mask,
decorated with beads and pearls, and she swam
at my pace as we descended to the village
where her mama waited. She greeted me
with arms outstretched, pulling me to her chest.
It was as if she’d known me forever, as if
I was a second daughter. As if my legs had known
water before they knew land, and I tread softly,
my body relaxing as if back in my mother’s womb.
I did not ask her permission; it wasn’t hers to give.
But she kissed me on the forehead when I told her of
my desire to marry her daughter, her tears adding
to the lake water. And when my love and I swam
back ashore, hand in hand, I ached
as if I’d left my own family beneath the surface.
