Right hand is white knuckles on the
porcelain tile of the bathtub.
clenching the strenght out of myself;
easing out of a warm dream, into air.
Left hand is taught up against the
cheeks, pinching the nose as it goes,
feeling the rush of non-bodily fluids
and the oil of the face, creating a
heterogeneous mixture on the surface
of the palm: something to look at,
simple, unclean, human.
Here is where the breath stops.
life continues but the ebb and flow
of the body takes its pause.
Suddenly, I am the sleeping fish
laying still in moving water.
The earth and time rush past me in their
cocaine pace, but I am algae cool for a moment,
finding my own perplexity in the complexity of the
tedium and fear that underlines my life.
Realizing without a doubt that things
do not and cannot happen as we
anticipate them to and being one hundred
percent scared that my failure will
encompass me as ice to the fish;
I will become obsolete.