Posts for June 7, 2022 (page 10)

the sun shimmers above
through the waves above my head
depth meter: twenty meters
just getting started
i grip the guide rope
and pull up with just enough
energy to send me further down
the sea is very still
depth meter: forty meters
i had a good pre-dive breath
i feel good, all is going like clockwork
depth meter: sixty meters
it is getting darker above
and the fish seems puzzled
at my presence
depth meter: eighty meters
i can no longer see much
must rely on the carabiner
to keep me near the guide rope
moving faster now
depth meter: one-hundred ten meters
keeping rib case expanded
plenty of air, plenty of air
depth meter: one-hundred twenty meters
very cold now, muscle endurance
still good
depth meter: one-hundred fifty meters
no fish here
no light
only me and this purgatory
depth meter: one-hundred seventy meters
may not be enough air
panic
depth meter: one-hundred eighty meters
there is no up anymore
or down
no me
only the dark
the cold
depth meter: one-hunny nine meter?
pain
shark bit me
no, cramp,
big cramp
depth meter: tow-hunny meeber up
no, down too much down
up, need up
need breathe
need mommy
angel arm
help
angel mommy
lift me 
weigh nothing
depth meter: two-hundred sixty meters

spotted fur, long snout 
chewing his toes endlessly  
the best beagle boy 

almost broke my arm
chasing squirrels today, I 
love him anyway 

he is my baby, 
and my father’s best buddy 
family always.

Let’s get a leg up on
Arming our teachers.
A gun in every classroom …
What could go wrong?
Not counting accidents
Or pissed-off pupils.
Not counting theft.
So maybe I mean,
In case of attack,
What could go wrong?
Not counting fumbling
And shooting yourself.
Or missing your target and
Hitting your sophomore.
Not counting making the
Angry shooter
Even angrier …
And shootier.
Other than that,
We’re cool.

I sit in evening rush-hour traffic 
a flickering street light catches my eye 
its orange glow trembling like my tired hands on this wheel

Its power beckons me 

I drive the old river road past the gravel company 
and the barbecue joint, the docks
with their long encrusted tongues, blow through
sour river funk, staccato glimpses of scalloped water, 
down to the riverside park in the shadow of the overlook 
where Louisville’s inherited families huddle behind flood walls.

I’ve swum in this river, waded through 
leathered silt, sunk my feet in storied mud. 
Seen it shine like a cache of silver coins. 
Collected driftwood to build fires to knock bugs down. 
When the wind picks up, I hear its song. 

I succumbed to the river’s ancient urge westward, 
and drifted that way for a time.
Came ashore in a land of prickly pear and cholla. 
Shopping cart arroyos and devils that scour the land
and whip the heart. I became sun-dumb and selfish
for want of water. 

Now, I am back, ankle deep in this squalid impurity.
Long, flat barges churn its face. A headless doll
lolls along the bank. The thin body 
of a cancer-pocked gar spoils in the sun. 
A log turns and rolls back to sleep.
Beautiful and terrible, both at once. 

And I know I am home. 

On the seat next to me
a three or four-year-old angel
wearing ushanka hat
for the last few stops
keeps on asking the question:

Daddy, why wouldn’t you talk to me?
Daddy, why wouldn’t you talk to me?
Daddy, why wouldn’t you talk to me?

Then leans his forehead on the glass – and so pass
nearly two millennia.
The trolley reaches their stop,
Daddy wordlessly stretches out a hand,
they get off.

Myself and, forgive me, humanity,
remain in our seats.

Author: Marin Bodakov
Translator: Katerina Stoykova

Heads or tails
masks or veils

active shooter
just a looter

thoughts & prayers 
no one cares

firing range
climate change

tipping point
smoke a joint

Once
Strange berries
Beckoned to me
Making my mouth water
Eager to pick and sample
This gift from nature
Destined to provide
Sweet sustenance
Life.

Then
Came Katniss
With her warning
Not these, never these
I assume all strange fruit
Most likely is poison
Causing stained lips
Bloated tongue
Death.

wireless air pods
and a worn blade
whittling at a picnic table