It started above ground. Then we
worked the present’s peace, as
the storm and life went on until
the whole story was underwater.
The lens moved to track the current,
the coral, its choral lives. The lens
was intelligent. It saw us. We
looked back, our entire lives
before us, now beyond speech,
the brave vessels of our knocking
hearts still moving by the word.
We held new names inside us,
hinting at what we were and to
what we were being returned.
Down we went. At last,
there was no time before this
but our remembrance, and some
would make trespass of memory
holding it close, would hear its
first utterance in the water, like
Mother even now, in
this constant dusk the day
still breaking in my–––
But she said:
don’t speak to me of
souls. Not here, at this
late hour. Only hold.