I'm on my first plane ride home.
I picture he and I in Wisconsin.
I picture us in a cranberry lake.
He is forcing my head under water
and the little tart hard red berries
are going in my water logged throat.
He's aware of it all, so clearly,
even thought he is him,
he's not himself. My head
in the cold crisp water. The berries
filling every area of surface.
They gather in a mob around the fight
and attach themselves to our
submerged waists. My head goes
under again- this is not voluntary,
the water is splashing and dead sticks
are rising to the top, above me,
as my kicking feet try to find
and push off the sodden ground.
Am I drowning or swallowing?
Cranberry bog for time and
some woman above me
is reminding my struggle
I am alone in this
red berry ridden water.
Of course I can see that I am,
I can talk and touch that I am.
I sense his hands, some hands,
holding my shoulders down,
hands pulling hand fulls of hair
and a pressing palm
Against my skull
with one goal-
My body to fill with this tart crimson fruit. Little berries to make a basket of my lungs, and a jar of my throat.
I'm alone here, of course, with my reachy arms.
When she reminds me, and I remember, it's clear;
Despite my fear, the girlish cries and gurgles,
the suffocating confusion
all I can really make out of this location
is it's absolute sacred beauty. Never mind the rest.
Always never mind the rest.