"4. Muhammad Ali Underwater," by Michael Conrad Dickman
4. Muhammad Ali Underwater
by Michael Conrad Dickman
(from "Poor Boy's Game for Muhammad Ali," The Missouri Review 26.2 (2003))
He is standing
at the bottom of a pool
surrounded at last by rest,
by the soft moments water affords.
A body gathered around a body.
Everything barely moving--
His shorts.
The laces in his shoes.
The hairs on his arms and legs
quietly sway under the breaking light above.
Every voice
on the deck is low
and more motion than meaning.
He cannot really tell who
they belong to, but somewhere he knows
each of them.
Here
surrounded by a furious grace
that doesn't shimmer so much as it shadows
he has found himself inside
the soft moment under
in a room away
from the slow world
and has begun to open his fists.
*
The unbelievable fact
that we could see
all of his left hook, his right jab
for once
ease in time from his chest and eyes,
push and split
water easy as skin breaking, opening
into the thing that lets it live.
The entire history of the dangerous shuffling of feet.
The fist from nowhere
made visible. In a still swiftness
he has turned, that smile, all fleet,
in no simple dance: a sure step,
a double stop of calm and lightning
verified in the swing.
His eyes wide, even now
he is looking and not looking.
The water somehow making room for it all.
*
Because he is underwater
does not mean he has let loose
some private fish. That he is
something he is not.
The dapple from the day
moves when he moves, as in any room
but here there is the breaking
wet weight on his back.
It will bead and drip. Breathless
it will fall from him in sunlight.
Because he is underwater.
Because he is underwater
does not mean he is waiting
for old swallows asleep in mud to carry him off
in spring. The only legends that can save him
are his lungs,
every bone,
movement,
his skin stretching between fingers and toes.
All effort becomes effortless,
almost powerless.
The second nature of rising.
He will let himself up opponentless and easy
gravity falling
back into cold light, blue, and clear blue.
Oxygen finding its way back into teeth.
Everything becomes clearer.
He will say It couldn't take me
it tried, but the water couldn't
Take me.
*
Behind soft folds of good cotton
shadows are drying,
the inner ear is returning.
In broad daylight:
The sweetness of air. A laying on of hands.
Ali won't glisten for long.
The water slipping onto pebbles and blue tiles
breaks
the immediate unavoidable silence
when Ali first reached for the short ladder
out of the deep end.
Everyone goes to him,
friends and reporters, photographers,
hopeful possible lovers have risen from green deck chairs
in two pieces
holding drinks, turning ice in their mouths.
It is the only possible moment.
Ali returned to his own familiar life.
Still, when his head broke the surface
didn't it seem he was coming for us?
Didn't you hope?
by Michael Conrad Dickman
(from "Poor Boy's Game for Muhammad Ali," The Missouri Review 26.2 (2003))
He is standing
at the bottom of a pool
surrounded at last by rest,
by the soft moments water affords.
A body gathered around a body.
Everything barely moving--
His shorts.
The laces in his shoes.
The hairs on his arms and legs
quietly sway under the breaking light above.
Every voice
on the deck is low
and more motion than meaning.
He cannot really tell who
they belong to, but somewhere he knows
each of them.
Here
surrounded by a furious grace
that doesn't shimmer so much as it shadows
he has found himself inside
the soft moment under
in a room away
from the slow world
and has begun to open his fists.
*
The unbelievable fact
that we could see
all of his left hook, his right jab
for once
ease in time from his chest and eyes,
push and split
water easy as skin breaking, opening
into the thing that lets it live.
The entire history of the dangerous shuffling of feet.
The fist from nowhere
made visible. In a still swiftness
he has turned, that smile, all fleet,
in no simple dance: a sure step,
a double stop of calm and lightning
verified in the swing.
His eyes wide, even now
he is looking and not looking.
The water somehow making room for it all.
*
Because he is underwater
does not mean he has let loose
some private fish. That he is
something he is not.
The dapple from the day
moves when he moves, as in any room
but here there is the breaking
wet weight on his back.
It will bead and drip. Breathless
it will fall from him in sunlight.
Because he is underwater.
Because he is underwater
does not mean he is waiting
for old swallows asleep in mud to carry him off
in spring. The only legends that can save him
are his lungs,
every bone,
movement,
his skin stretching between fingers and toes.
All effort becomes effortless,
almost powerless.
The second nature of rising.
He will let himself up opponentless and easy
gravity falling
back into cold light, blue, and clear blue.
Oxygen finding its way back into teeth.
Everything becomes clearer.
He will say It couldn't take me
it tried, but the water couldn't
Take me.
*
Behind soft folds of good cotton
shadows are drying,
the inner ear is returning.
In broad daylight:
The sweetness of air. A laying on of hands.
Ali won't glisten for long.
The water slipping onto pebbles and blue tiles
breaks
the immediate unavoidable silence
when Ali first reached for the short ladder
out of the deep end.
Everyone goes to him,
friends and reporters, photographers,
hopeful possible lovers have risen from green deck chairs
in two pieces
holding drinks, turning ice in their mouths.
It is the only possible moment.
Ali returned to his own familiar life.
Still, when his head broke the surface
didn't it seem he was coming for us?
Didn't you hope?