I imagine his words
as bubbles rising in a pond
while I lie flat on the bottom
and watch them float away.
Fish visit and communicate
with gentle nibbles on my neck,
then they swim away. I can tell
they were only looking for food
or they would stay with me and help me
try to make sense of this
confusing torrent of bubbles.
I wish I could quit listening.
I could give him words, I'd like to,
but that would only be trading
hate for hate, and I won't do that.
We should trade better words, but then
he'd have to have some compassion
(or indeed, any heart at all)
but his mouth keeps droning on and on
repeating the same old harsh words
like screaming an incantation.
It sounds like a madman gargling.
Still on my back in the pond,
I watch the bubbles carefully
to discern what they mean
and how I should respond.
Are they signs of danger?
Are they simply harmless air?
I hold myself still in the water, angry,
fearing I risk self-destruction
if I fail to pay attention
even for a single moment.
His words snag flesh like hooks.
I wish I could yank on his words
as if they were a fishing line
and see him tumble into the pond
where he must lie with bated breath
and watch the last of my long regret
drift away with the bubbles.
