I am having to do this here alone. No one to tell me when the ocean will begin. I came to explore the wreck. The words are purposes. The words are maps. I came to see the damage that was done and the treasures that prevail, the drowned face always staring toward the sun. This is the place and I am here, the mermaid whose dark hair streams black, carrying a knife, a camera, a book of myths in which our names do not appear. -Adrienne Rich, Diving Into the Wreck.
Last night a woman in my mouth refused
me, refused the journey my tongue offered. This was the end of night.
This bleeding is the beginning of day, perhaps what brought me to my
knees-- little things in the stacks get me. The coward placed 2
circles beneath my tongue-- easier than a hive to dissolve, and my
tongue welded them together like it must always be a maker, 2 sweet
tarts filled with numbing powder and soft, but soft, went the night
so I couldnt feel the ache-- blue ache, then green fading yellow and
lighter, lighter till it disappeared. Be the day circles, triangles,
deceiptful Softs or an unyielding lover, it begins with my tongue's
memory. One never remembers the medium nights. Who wants them, I lie
raised on deck, a blue heron in the pond, feet covered in patties of
duck weed, a pot of turtles and snakes stew beneath , fearless or
ignorant is the baby heron? I am sitting on a hive, recalling my
fifth step brought me to my hands, write hand impaled by the needle
it fell on, recall a stream of blood means relentment.