Invention of Light (astyanax mexicanus)
i.
In the bowels of Mexico
there is a black lake inside a cave
where sunlight was extinguished
centuries ago.
In this lake resides
a small colony that swims
blind in darkness.
Evolved beyond sight, now born
with two tiny vacancies in their heads.
As far as they know, light
has never been invented –
and the rest of the world
does not exist until
something snatches one fish
out of the current of his life.
ii.
He would say it was the hand of God
if he knew what a hand or a god was.
He does not have a name
for the scientists either.
Falls asleep to the sound of beeping monitors,
wakes to an explosion in his skull.
Duel detonations where new eyes are placed.
Everything happens at once
and his heart explodes.
Scientists will never know
if this reaction was caused by amazement
or terror. Take note:
iii.
You are not a fish.
You do not live in a cave in Mexico
but the longer you exist in shadows,
allow your eyes to turn to sinkholes,
the harsher the light
when it finds you.
One of Us Has Changed (atmospheric convection)
At the right angle, those incisors glint,
poorly concealed weapons
under your new hostile snarl.
Temperature drops as if we stand
in the shadow of an ominous figure
who intends us harm.
Sky darkens the shade of a bruise,
old excitement reverberates
up my spine as the first thunder rolls.
Watch you whip yourself
into the biggest monster
atmosphere can sustain.
Locked doors, boarded windows
are useless prayers pleading
to a fist in motion.
Somewhere you inhale
someone’s life. Spit out
their splinters and bones.
Hypnotic as an injury,
the fascination festers. Try to look
away, the sky lights up again.
Endless Echoes (watching me watch you)
I’m watching you
smile. Your laughter
familiar as my own,
a faded echo
like my own.
The warm breeze
musses your hair
brushes my skin again.
I can feel it
even if it’s not here. Outside
a blizzard erases the world.
My fingers skim
the shadows around the television screen
like the surface of a black lake.
The summer sun
shines as if night or winter
will never touch my skin again.
You, trying to coerce me
into the ocean. Warm as bath water,
you say. I hear myself
refusing. My voice
sounds unlike me.
Why did I not join you?
That moment. I wanted to
capture you. Swimming away,
eyes closed. Marco, you call.
Marco.
Polo. I whisper to the empty room.
Saying this a thousand times
will not summon you back.
The sun shines
through the dim glow
of the television
emitting no warmth.
I caught you.
I lost you. I turn
the video off.
Polo.
Let the Boat Go, Take My Hand (dry drowning)
Gentle push
away from the shore
directionless across the lake
unmanned vessel
drifts away
dissolves in mist
lost to us
even if we know
where it is
no going
anywhere
except back
home
for either of us
You’ve been listening to poetry by Joseph Kerschbaum on the Poets Weave. I’m Romayne Rubinas Dorsey.
