luminous and white,
i walk like a roman
in my sterile gown, my loose tunic,
pacing the stale, gray corridors
- holding its ghastly attendants,
- who seem to stiffen at my presence.

surely i do not belong here.
surely these dreams of
saltwater and sea urchins,
the submerged cabins
overgrown with kelp
and ash-blue faces,
- they cannot be real.

the land dwellers gawk
and surround me like gulls,
and push in my ears
their witnessed account:

i escaped the death-mouth,
the violent lung-filler,
who stole the rest
but choked up me,
to reside at the edge
of the angry sea,
who confided her depths
in front of me:

these, these are mine.

Heather C. McCuen

If you've any comments on this poem, Heather C. McCuen would be pleased to hear from you.