Staring at the Satchel hanging on my Closet door

I think that if I wear it all the time
that the twisted white leather
supporting the tiny black stone
lying like a lizard in a sleeping bag
might lift me up as well,

my nostrils rising above the Skin
of the tawny liquid that is the feeling,
or the voice in my head, outstretching
it's neck to call out for help,
help me hesitating, help
me tripping over the tattered soles
of my own shoes, help

I can still hear the degradations,
humiliation, manipulating letters
strung into a choker of roars
and the tearing of the phone from the wall,
i was cut off

holding the knife i stared
at the slivering blade
the sharp odor of metal
against a thin hair rising
on my arm

It's been so long since that empty Thanksgiving.
No one saw me.

and I think that the air
is sweeter above the surface.
I like the miles of blue forgiveness.
I like that my sharks are deep, scrounging
and their voices are small.

When I am pulled up by that string
and my dripping eyes open and the
darkened hair slicks back in ribs
upon my neck -- I remember
that the words etched
in the stone spell peace.

- February 18, 1999