Sunday, July 30
the boatman
“you must suffer,” quoth the boatman
poling the dead black waters
“have you not met those who never hurt?”
boards creak on dark waters
i stare into the inky murk but do not dive
not yet, not yet, not yet, but
“you must,” he intones, impassionate as moonlight
so i carefully unbutton, remove, fold
standing on the deck, on the edge, nude
colder now; afraid now; “you cannot want it,”
he drones on, all coffin velvet and pyre heat
and i know he speaks the truth but i reject it—
“you must suffer,” again, and again, and
i cannot force my body down.
naked; weeping on the wooden boards,
ripples lapping underneath with rotten teeth
infuriated by my weakness; ashamed of comfort;
he is not watching. i break the neck of hesitance
and before i hear it snap i dive.
well, now: the shock of frigid water slapping me
the bite of fangs, the rip of fingernails
crush of the boat’s heel against my skin, my ribs,
my strong bones buckle in the press: the ichor
choking out my life from lungs—reel and thrash
and gasp for air: but suck in only thick liquid death;
eyes wide, battered legs kicking out, heaving
but every intake only forces water deeper in—
i will die, i realize; perhaps i am already dead,
mind darkening in a fogging glass. then
air—a gasp—before fierce currents pull me down again.
i cannot hear him now but i hear him anyway
“there is no relief; to hope is not to suffer—“
a sharpness in my calves; a puncture in my chest;
another choke, another gasp, another death—until
the skin of water overhead lies still and black and foul.
coughing, sputtering, vomiting: my frail hands on wood
dragging me dripping back, to exhausted roll and pant
and gag, and spit, and wheeze, and lie, and sit.
“you must suffer,” quoth the boatman, “to see—“
and i do, i do, i see it all from dying eyes, edges dim:
everything the same. the world goes on its way.
stars arc in their holy indifference; wind howls lonely
and eyes growl from human masks scarred and fierce.
strength unwilling seeps back into my crooked bones
as i wrap my body in discarded clothes, now
heading back, now at the dock, now inside somewhere
now in a warm shower, now in a soft bed, now in
someone’s arms, now holding children, now victorious,
now wealthy, now achieved, now admired, now
old, now in a gentle sunset, now at a kitchen counter,
now in a quiet room, now in soft chairs, now asleep.
but the eyes that screamed in that black pool
are the eyes that stare at all these things,
eyes unchanging, only more tender for having wept:
more merciful and hesitant—but wide no more,
afraid no more, though the dark edge fog never fades:
they gaze from a boatman’s face, and i grimly quoth—
july 2023
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