what I learned from the sea
now is the time to swim back out into the dark water. it's time to salvage the good things. my lungs are full of tense curiosity as I skim beneath the surface of memory, away from the shore. now we see what stayed afloat, and what was sucked under.
I admit that one soft, naïve chamber of my heart had hoped to find our watertight love- two hearts bound safely together, and cradled gently in the waves. Nothing so small and bright is visible from here to the horizon. what's left is sparse and surprising. a case of integrity, a bottle of grief. a trunk full of lies and secrets still bound tightly closed. strange, no laughter. no unguarded mirth bubbles up from below- if it once existed it has been swallowed up now by the cold sea. I can find some contentment, a little maturity- even some passion has lingered, but laughter is absent.
when I have hauled my cargo back to shore I collapse on the sand, insistent surf licking at my bare toes. I sleep through the hot sun and awaken only when evening descends. my muscles are stiff and my chest feels sore and hollow. my head is heavy and dazed with sleep, so I do not see it at first- that strange thing coughed up by the rough ocean.
it looks like a fish, or how Dali might draw a fish, a flattened-out thing with a squiggly edge that glows red and orange and gold in the near-darkness. it seems to sputter and cough, it flickers weakly but it is alive. I kneel and pick it up in my weather-roughened hands. it is heavy and wet and warm, and as I hold it the shifting light glows stronger. I wonder at how it came back to me, how fiercely it must have struggled against the ropes that bound it to a thing that tried to pull it under. I cradle the sad, wounded thing to my breast and sing it softly to sleep.
I look up at the unfamiliar stars and am grateful. My heart came back to me whole.
I admit that one soft, naïve chamber of my heart had hoped to find our watertight love- two hearts bound safely together, and cradled gently in the waves. Nothing so small and bright is visible from here to the horizon. what's left is sparse and surprising. a case of integrity, a bottle of grief. a trunk full of lies and secrets still bound tightly closed. strange, no laughter. no unguarded mirth bubbles up from below- if it once existed it has been swallowed up now by the cold sea. I can find some contentment, a little maturity- even some passion has lingered, but laughter is absent.
when I have hauled my cargo back to shore I collapse on the sand, insistent surf licking at my bare toes. I sleep through the hot sun and awaken only when evening descends. my muscles are stiff and my chest feels sore and hollow. my head is heavy and dazed with sleep, so I do not see it at first- that strange thing coughed up by the rough ocean.
it looks like a fish, or how Dali might draw a fish, a flattened-out thing with a squiggly edge that glows red and orange and gold in the near-darkness. it seems to sputter and cough, it flickers weakly but it is alive. I kneel and pick it up in my weather-roughened hands. it is heavy and wet and warm, and as I hold it the shifting light glows stronger. I wonder at how it came back to me, how fiercely it must have struggled against the ropes that bound it to a thing that tried to pull it under. I cradle the sad, wounded thing to my breast and sing it softly to sleep.
I look up at the unfamiliar stars and am grateful. My heart came back to me whole.