Sunday, February 20, 2011

To Drown: Revised

To Drown

It came over me once:  skin,
bed, walls
            writhing, wading. 
                                    I was sinking. 
It seized me,
this knotted weight
keeping me from the surface.

Above the bed sheets,
the dim contours
of shifting furniture stood. 
            My breath
                              just over my lips. 
The underwater voice
            pinning me
                        sounded so distant
in its low animal moans. 

That cry – the last
part that belonged
to me – escaped:
                       from the belly, it struck
the throbbing darkness. 
Like a wounded dog,
                    a yelp
quickly muffled by his hand
and he pulled me

I ached so earnestly
to be far,
to break the lip of water.
I ached for air.

How strange,
            the frantic
                        of bedding – that feathered sound – reminded me
of flight. 

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