(2021, first poem in around 10 years)
I can’t dive like other people do
They can go down without holding their nose
If I do that, I choke right away
I’ve tried not to hold it in lots of ways, but still
It doesn’t make sense to me
So I built myself a submarine
A protected shell to let me explore
even the deepest parts, still breathing
I don’t know what it’s made of
Wondered for a while, but now
I’m happy not knowing.
Sometimes I don’t remember the pressure it can take
It’s easy to forget how other people dive
Some special people taught themselves
to stop breathing
And that’s quite a feat!
To go that long and still survive
If I did that, I’d worry that
when I came up, I’d still be holding
my breath: In a box, sealed and closed off
If I opened it up would I choke on what’s there –
Would I be left gasping for air, does it leak?
What if there’s a hole? would it overflow inward,
drowning my my soul, or outward, a spill?
I can’t imagine the strength it takes
to build a box like that
and hold it shut
(There are doors in our hearts
That open out
into oceans)