95 Ft. Down

These days I waken
to the used grievances
of love, that I have
not gotten very far,
or very free. And I confess,
my lover, that I am 33,
and this night alone
I feel my belly press
against the rusted beams
of the Jefferson Street
Bridge that this city is
going to blow up anyway.
My best guess is
ninety-five feet down,
a number you gave me
in your story about how
you went diving, miles out
in the gray gulf, a depth
where you could die
a dozen ways: on top,
it is the swells that slap
you against the rudder, or
fifteen feet below, it is
the currents that tear
you from the anchor line,
or it is just the descent, where
the darkness alone is enough
to kill, or it is the ascent
that can go bad, especially
if your buddy insists on
the pink air tank, the cute
one, and she runs out
of air because the tank
is too small, the narks
shaking her and you
into delirium as you share
your air and as you try
not to come up too fast,
too urgent, lest you
rip your lungs. And while
you’re down that deep, what
do you see? Only eels
phosphorescent, thin, hungry
in the distance, the only
light beyond your torch. I
wonder how many people
have been under, ninety-five
feet down, seen eels move,
slow as sea filament. "Lots,"
you say, and you kiss
me raising me from the depths
with slow, certain love.

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