to the wreckage

(a response to “Diving into the Wreck,” by Adrienne Rich)

It does not matter how many times
ive been here before
The icy dark pull of the Ocean grips me
with fear, and longing, and grief
just the same
as the first time

I hate this mask, and these flippers
and this knife
hate that I cannot enter this world
naked, and powerful
and confident
but rather bulging with dials
and rubber knobs
and sharp edges

Yet I am here, again
descending deeper
pulled by a longing as old
as the sea

Drawn to the wreckage
that raw steel body
the cold grief of what
has been lost

For if there is anything true
and beautiful
and good
left in the world
the hunt will begin


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