Cold Water Sea Change

by Jesse S. Mitchell

Unending and bland as the day I was born
And my mouth twice as dry,
With withered digits, buried legs,
And two good front eyes, flat.
But you can tell I love you by the words I say…
Why there is no where to go but up.
You can tell by my tone.
You can tell by the time I spend spend spend
With you.
My God, look at my hands…
Look down at my hands,
You know, If I were a more sensitive man
I could run around, wild, and we could fix this
City,
By God, it could be a paradise.
My God, look at my hands
And how the blood pours out,
What is it that all this means to me?
What is that it needs from me?
But there I stand in the kitchen, knife in hand,
A silly Jew, salting the beef,
Draws out the blood,
Degenerates the essence
But I’ve said that before.
What good it does…what good it does.
Drawn,
Talk about drawn,
Thin,
Why I can barely feel my hands and feet, up to my elbows
Up to my knees,
Numb…
A phantom pain, maybe, but what good is a memory?
My God
My God,
Is this really me?
A thousand miles down,
Alone, at the bottom of the sea?
Is this really it,
What does your mother tell you?
Is this really all the bother?
A scrap of dried cloud/cloth
To smother out the rest?
A dried up utopia,
Just add water
Brine
Soak it over night.
Is this really me?
A thousand miles down,
Alone, at the bottom of the sea?