Hadal Zone

O little piscine existence!
I come up against the edge
of what I’m capable of
like a fish against
the walls of a clean tank.

I take online tests and check
ten out of twelve boxes.
I ask hypothetical questions
and then split myself
to answer them.

Lately, I follow
the sound of sirens
for impossible distances,
even into my sleep. Where
isn’t the emergency?

We’re born like a rip
through the sheet.
We remain unconvinced
by the pale singing.

I don’t own my soul,
but I have temporary
custody of it and provide
sufficient stewardship.

It’s an eyeless ocean, cold
and sibilant. It ruins me
to know that there’s an inner
body that I can’t access.

What’s the exact difference
between loss and absence?
That temporal certainty,
the final grace of
immediacy—immeasurable.

If the tank weren’t clear,
I would have no idea.
I’d still be swimming in
circles, threading the water
with my recursion.

My body bent to itself
like my clean progenitor.
It would be such a mercy
to forget the other side.