The Deep

Recently, I've been writing down my dreams. This is partially because S. hates to listen to dreams, and partially because I find all dreams to be completely fascinating. Who are we, when we dream? Where do we go? What do we hope to find there? Why is this movie so messed up?

Brb, gotta go rescue King Morpheus. (I also suffer from chronic nightmares, which Little Nemo and I have in common, I guess. More on that later.)
Anyway, poems, as a form, lend themselves well to this type of thing: the fractured, vivid images; vague impressions; elements that morph into other elements; the stark narrative of disparate ideas stood side by side.
I love all of these odd little poems, but if dreams aren't your thing, you might not respond to them. This one is still fresh, very fresh, but I hope you find it as evocative as I did when I was in it.

+++

The Deep (September 2015)

“Is it lonely underwater?” I asked my dad, fear moving my lips.
He said, “Only when you see a shark coming out of the darkness.”

There were spiny rock fish as big as dragons, lashing their tails through
tree-sized anemones, floating crab claws like human arms.

I saw the lights of the bus tours ahead, people bustling, checking tickets, climbing aboard, drawing a

breath safely inside. They want to see nature, but not drown.
I heard my brother and sister talking, our tires deep in ancient grooves as we rumbled through midnight, descending.