(This is dedicated to Claire. Inspired by complicated situations, memoirs about water and tragedy, and sleepovers. Once again, things I'm scared to say out loud to the the person that needs to hear them the most... Oh, and I'll post Dante tomorrow)
Something tenuous lives here,
in a deep and watery ventricle
of the heart. It's a thread
connecting me and you.
It must be thin and sturdy rope,
woven to resist the pull of tides,
rough against my fingerpads.
I strum it like a guitar string,
hoping you'll already know the melody.
I know it's already crowded down here
with our oceanic baggage.
I'm not afraid of conch shells
and coral and old photographs and broken jewelry.
No, I'm not afraid of any of that
lost and forgotten treasure
at the bottom of the sea. It was cherished once.
It should be easier to build something
from something that already has
a strong frame. A foundation.
But I'm standing with a brick in one hand,
and mortar in the other,
and I realize I've never built anything
and that bricks are out of place
20,000 leagues under the sea.
So I'll hold my breath and watch
the air bubbles float up,
and when I feel a vibration
wave back over our rope,
I'll kick strongly off the ocean floor,
and meet you at the surface.
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