She knows every inch of the dock,
every splinter, barnacle,
It is not a plank. It’s just where she walks.
And she knows how to dive,
has been doing it for years.
No easing shore side into the wash for her,
she plunges in and is used to it
before others wake.
This is underworld—closets, caves, shelves,
trenches, forests, hydromedusa, brittle
stars, Painlevé’s camera. This is where she should live—
she who in her heart is a sponge
is a sponge is a sponge.
To lay out to dry, to become exposed
to air, the rising sun. It is her death
to be before all of you. She will never work a room,
works the ocean floor
for all it’s worth.
Metal crushes metal, emergency sirens approach closer
and closer. A muffled distortion
underwater. Leave her uncontained.
She would rather synchronize her own sculls outside a tank
than be confounded by a mirage of roses
she can’t reach without a body.