Anna Leahy
Not the Story of the Wreck
—after Adrienne Rich’s “Diving into the Wreck”
I confess I haven’t been shipwrecked
so much as anchored in quicksand.
You’re thinking metaphors now
and whether I’m ruined or stuck,
but you’re imagining castaways on a greying day
making do with whatever’s on the island,
gathering sticks for fire, wedging rocks
into a message to be read from the air,
worrying about thirst and drought,
which are metaphors for need and scarcity,
but you’re thinking about your mouth
and dust. You taste it. You’re wondering
whether quicksand is real
or merely a recurring danger borrowed
from childhood’s television afternoons.
The ground under me lies or leaves
with the least pressure.
To feel the earth give way is to hope
there’s a limb within reach.
I tell myself that not moving is not sinking.
Stay neutral, stay frozen in place.
Don’t muck about so much as lean back
to float on this silt, this sludge. This sediment
buoys the sedentary. Sit with it.
Do not sweep arms up; do not try too hard.
You’re supposed to wave your arms
only with bears. You’re supposed to yell,
I’m only human.
I’ve learned how to survive
these implausible metaphors.
I’ve learned when to play dead
and when to fight for my life or its shadow.
I’m talking about viscosity now, which is to say
a sticky situation made of chewed mistletoe
spread on branches where birds perch–
it’s glue, it’s a trap. I’m talking about
strain and the rate of change, the shapeshifting
of internal contradictions sheared thin.
In truth, no one gets sucked into quicksand;
it’s basic physics. To quicken is to stir, to unfurl
roots in the soil. Flutter your hands
to reimagine the resounding surroundings–
let the muck be what floats you for a while,
let your lungs lift you loose in time.
Your fingers are branches too.
I confess I haven’t been shipwrecked
so much as anchored in quicksand.
You’re thinking metaphors now
and whether I’m ruined or stuck,
but you’re imagining castaways on a greying day
making do with whatever’s on the island,
gathering sticks for fire, wedging rocks
into a message to be read from the air,
worrying about thirst and drought,
which are metaphors for need and scarcity,
but you’re thinking about your mouth
and dust. You taste it. You’re wondering
whether quicksand is real
or merely a recurring danger borrowed
from childhood’s television afternoons.
The ground under me lies or leaves
with the least pressure.
To feel the earth give way is to hope
there’s a limb within reach.
I tell myself that not moving is not sinking.
Stay neutral, stay frozen in place.
Don’t muck about so much as lean back
to float on this silt, this sludge. This sediment
buoys the sedentary. Sit with it.
Do not sweep arms up; do not try too hard.
You’re supposed to wave your arms
only with bears. You’re supposed to yell,
I’m only human.
I’ve learned how to survive
these implausible metaphors.
I’ve learned when to play dead
and when to fight for my life or its shadow.
I’m talking about viscosity now, which is to say
a sticky situation made of chewed mistletoe
spread on branches where birds perch–
it’s glue, it’s a trap. I’m talking about
strain and the rate of change, the shapeshifting
of internal contradictions sheared thin.
In truth, no one gets sucked into quicksand;
it’s basic physics. To quicken is to stir, to unfurl
roots in the soil. Flutter your hands
to reimagine the resounding surroundings–
let the muck be what floats you for a while,
let your lungs lift you loose in time.
Your fingers are branches too.
--
Anna Leahy’s books include the poetry collections If in Some Cataclysm and What Happened Was: and the nonfiction book Tumor. She has been a fellow at MacDowell, Joshua Tree National Park, and the American Library in Paris and is the editor of Tab Journal.
Anna Leahy’s books include the poetry collections If in Some Cataclysm and What Happened Was: and the nonfiction book Tumor. She has been a fellow at MacDowell, Joshua Tree National Park, and the American Library in Paris and is the editor of Tab Journal.