The Thing In the Pool
I drown you in wine, the goddamn squatter
who lives in me. Flow, Lethe, dark and deep!
But even through a drunken dreamless sleep,
like a nude drowned man in see-through water,
the memory is seen… That very sunny
day on the river, tender girlish hands
doing my back with sunscreen, lots of plans
for future, reckless air, easy money,
the coolness of the depth… All of a sudden
a spasm! a cramp!
a zigzag
lightning
pain!
that lit up something? someone? I would fain
forget but the remembrance, mixed with blood in
my veins, with coldest sweat in my nightmares,
stayed in for good… The rescue team did well:
I’m still alive but, tell me, why the hell
I often feel like going downstairs
to river beach, undressing, diving deeper
under the water and taking a breath?
The habitant inside of me shrugs: “Death
is quite familiar to every sleeper
and swimmer. Death is, so to speak, a river
which flows from the future to the past,
a metaphor of time. Don’t look aghast
at this phenomenon but you should quiver
in fear just thinking of the one you saw
down there, at the bottom of your soul.
Who could this be? Don’t look through the keyhole
of the imaginary but real door
between realities”…
Or I just think
he says it, and the truth is I did sink
long time ago.
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