surrendering
Surrendering
If it is imperative that I admit defeat, allow me to descend along that rope in measured intervals, avoiding: surprises, rushes of blood to the head and unsightly panic –– jumble-jiggle of puppet feet.
Instead: stations, plateaus. That we may both appreciate every knot on the rope, every bramble of weeds, every cluster of shell and fish on our way down. I wish to learn their names and idiosyncrasies –– make a few temporary friends.
A slow fall should allow for gradual adjustments of light, pressure, perspective. Time to gauge the distance traveled, that is yet to come. To design a countdown, welcome the gradients of blue, translucency fading to deep, opaque black.
And declines in temperature, reminiscent at first of aerial climes, progressing to colds yet unknown. Let it not change abruptly, rather: a long birthing, like that of our son. Let us delineate the presence, the absence of sound. Adjust to muffled echoing, to liquid resonance.
Also, the need to negotiate the nature, frequency, of my intercourse with creatures whose needs differ, oppose mine –– the tiny motes and mites that bite into faces immersed in saltwater. Or even bigger beasts. Allow me to imagine myself Jonas, Pinocchio, Ahab –– contemplate adventure, every possible happening.
Conversely, look back to the surface a few times, to remember the days when one thought that one could fly, float, swim – if only. Allow me to imagine, then discard backwards travel, rendered impossible.
Let me come to the conclusion by my own methods, forgetting and remembering it a few times, repeatedly testing the laws of physics and temperaments.
I need time, ample amounts of it, to adjust my expectations, negotiate my particular place between hope, and the complete absence of it. To learn to measure my expectancies, to temper my moods in Kelvins.
At the bottom, we both already know: there is nothing to fear.
Lorelei Bacht is a poet of complex European heritage living in Asia. In a past life, she was a political lobbyist. When she is not carrying little children around or encouraging them to discover the paintings of Edvard Munch, Bacht can be found collecting bones and failing scientific experiments. Her recent work can be found and/or is forthcoming in OpenDoor Poetry, Litehouse, Visitant, Quail Bell and The Wondrous Real. Follow her on Instagram: @lorelei.bacht.writer
Artwork by Myriam Taleb