Atlantis
by Lorraine Schein








 Deluge.  Over the drowned cities of my heart, the giant crashing
wave of fear, a sky of water. The enormous breaker of longing comes over
me next, the enormous breaker of longing that almost breaks me but,
clinging to the barnacles of my shipwrecked self, I resist.

 And then the black water breaks over me from behind; I am broken,
going under, rage filling my lungs.  Rage moves the oceans; love is just
a ripple on the surface.  That which was destroyed by water because it
was made of water, built of that fear, longing, rage that is
otherworldly, flowing subterranean to this city of reason always.

 Fabled city. What was once power and light is now blind water.
What was speed is slow liquid infinity, coraling time.

 The male sea horse, not the female, gives birth to its young,
which swarm sputtering out from its pouch.  The sea does not know how it
creates its plethoral bizarrities, spawned in silence.  But silence knows.

 Death floats by, sly fish, pale manta ray, devil fish, gelatinoid
bird, side-eyed, with its mortician's smile, giant winged fins slowly
flapping, electric sensors sensing me, invertebrate.

 Oh Atlantis, will you ever rise in me again?
 
 

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