Ocean Gate
“I am trying to be a thing that comes back with enough water” – Sarah Cavar.
(In memory of the submersible passengers that went missing on Sunday, 18 June 2023)
On the eve of the Atlantic sink,
I sought swollen objects to cherish into breath.
waterlogged bodies, groomed to mistake a ground opening for reception.
dolphins fast-fling into wreck.
& in place of dying, formats its cell
to exist loudly as a mammal—empty of memory,
lacking genetic traces of ruin to hold life’s sweetness at face value.
I hold the gaze of a pond, marvel at how much body it stomachs—
jaw-open as a starved labrador.
I detest whatever liquid that goes beyond cup, to puddle in large current.
the fail-safe device, programmed to repel bite-marks.
ground surveillance foretells: bloodbath below sea level,
while the footage mirrors a torso chewed reckless.
head severed from its occiput—
yet, no predator on sight to pin down with murder.
say a sperm whale was once misfired semen that breed two,
that breeds a whole school of threat—flogging the body of water:
a menace, infamous for how it drums its praise down to one vicious attack.
salvation is an encrypted message in the belly of a shark.
our divine loins surrounding a fallen body like sworn angels.
I’m collecting the like terms of my wound—every bit of it.
I recognize the animal designed for my destruction,
classify the injuries in hierarchy of misplaced hands
& still stay in want of sun,
of astral light breathing down the ocean—snow-ridden with ice.
days I spent, land grabbing shorelines &
examining my vomit for cryptid.
science makes a lab rat of us,
to tame the animal of our desire.
our innards spilled out like petroleum jelly:
a matchstick thrown in here is self-arson.
beneath UFO light, I sew my lung into a breathless jacket,
float past the guillotine blade,
dip a right limb in the wrong puddle.
I short-circuit into a toy boat.
I—both risk-taker & risk. end product of a prototype
the test tells me:
I exist as a finished product elsewhere.
further research might prove abortive.
yet, look how body lays down in protest.
how it weathers rust—
my tongue, solidified in brine-soaked regrets.
