I'm still writing poetry. It's been cathartic for me to make political art for its own sake and publish it to my blog. Here's another piece.


You cannot always be drowning.
You cannot sink forever in a bottomless sea.
Brine fills the lungs, but these are finite vessels,
and the body cannot endure that awful fullness.
It spasms, pinches the larynx shut, blackens the mind.

You do not want to die.
Even the small fish of the deep make plans,
zipping past your body toward a story you cannot fathom,
while the whales who pursue them sing in tongues -
too profound for any human understanding.

Fight the flailing of your limbs.
Fight the clenching of your throat.
Fight the darkness at the edges of your sight.

And rise.

There is a vault above, and in it there are -
yellow leaves browning on the earth,
winds like herons' wings upon your face,
hot soup and bread on a winter night,
and a lover to wring the brine from your body.

When you surface, if there is a fog, do not despair.
There is a sun above it, you have seen that sun before.
Cough the sea from your supple lungs, and give them thanks.
Flex the cold from your mighty limbs, and spread them wide.
Strike out for the shore you know, even if you cannot see it,

and breathe.