If underwater is the subconscious, that murky green
place where time stops ticking,
and above it a well-known set of agreements that govern,
a city constructed from logical premise and bullet journals,
then what of the heron, the otter, the quarter-grown
child in a foldable kayak—
or the more so even the diving birds
that fly continent-length, float half-in-half-out, and disappear
below the shiny surface for more minutes
than we think possible?
Way-sayer, seamstress of the hem between,
take from us the indigestible news of the day, the outrage,
and plunge so far down with it that the July-hot water
reveals its cold roots. From there, curl
your fingers around a ropy stem and drag it up, breaking
into view with it brandished, a gift from the unknown.
Most of us can either fly well or sink down
into the green depths with ease but not both, the mystic
always poor, the precision builder always left with one
empty room where a person might put books, maybe a fish tank
that reveals the underwater drama without risking.
See again how she climbs to great heights, plummets down,
rises with a shudder, having hauled up a silver night
dream, still writhing and dripping and alive.
This poem first appeared in Alaska Women Speak.
—
Kelly Madigan is a poet and essayist living in the Loess Hills of western Iowa. She has received a fellowship from the National Endowment for the Arts, and the Distinguished Artist Award from the Nebraska Arts Council. Her work has appeared in 32 Poems, Terrain.org, Prairie Schooner, Flyway and Calyx. Her books include The Edge of Known Things (SFASU Press) and Getting Sober (McGraw-Hill).
