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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