Sinking
I don’t often drown anymore
Most of the time, I feel obligated
To a routine immersion
Some type of spiritless baptism
Where the ocean pulls me to her floor
Into a sunken womb
Where my bruises can be special
But as black devours blue,
I’m eager to drown
Waiting for the loose-legged ache
And my weightless asylum
And naturally, I am thankful
I’m very aware now
Trusting myself is illogical
Though I can’t ignore my skin
Beginning to pull-
My hairs beginning to raise
My swollen veins, rendering me home
My tiny allies
Waking me
And I am once again thankful
For these little bits of me
The only courage I have left
But what is courage worth
At the bottom of the sea?
Meg Culp is an (almost) thirty year old mother of two living in Virginia. She married young and considers her good fortune and peaceful life an enigma. Meg’s passion has, and will always be, poetry.