I woke up this morning
and somehow I knew
that room bolted shut for years
had been broken into
and I knew I had to investigate
wearily, hopefully
thinking I would find dust
outdated magazines
grown brittle with age
dry, withered plants
Instead
I found
an ocean
Making careful note
of the smashed–in lock
I placed a trembling hand
on the broad ancient door
inhaling as I did
that old familiar
scent
breath traveling
down, down, down
to a deep part
of my belly
and I was shocked
because this ordinary breath
began to burn
like a stiff shot
of rum
imbibed upon returning from
the winter’s cold
I should have known right then
to stop
pretend I never knew
about the break in
But how could I?
And then
pushing the door ajar
and peeking in
I saw that glint of ocean
placid, beguiling,
idyllic even
and I though
perhaps.
Perhaps I’ll
wade a little
looking for keepsakes
on the shore
perhaps if I bring in
the largest, gaudiest
plastic beach ball
I can find
it may be possible
to use this room again
But all the while
a still persistent voice
kept asking
But where
are all the withered plants?
The magazines?
The dust?
What will you do
if wading in one day
searching for shells
you feel compelled
to swim
or
when the soft breeze
changes
to a squall?
How can you keep
an ocean
in your heart
and not be
terrified?

Copyright Iole Damaskinos 2005