|
Azoic Bottom
Now we come to the study of yellow mud, of the skeptical dredges, of
the
azoic bottom.
The glowing photograph of a fish was all we had, and we continuously
referred to it as the fish.
Then there were forty-nine years in the throat, the threat of
belonging to a
family.
The occasional cable tottering in our tonsils like a miserable
struggle.
Sure, we became human for a purpose.
Yes, the sperm and ovum united to form the medulla oblongata, from
which
our sea-fluid selves emerged.
When my wife soaks in bath salts.
When she laces the stew with particles of fire.
When the muscle relaxes among the flowering beds of epsom dress.
When dining out, I crave the waitress's sway and what she keeps firm
between her legs.
The darkest part of a whaleboat is the killing floor.
Physically hurt by speech, I flop around, harpoon-strong, cognizant
of my one
hole of breath, crowding down the long word of my life into
what I was,
into what I might become.
|
