little fish

As if birth weren’t enough.
So soon the swimming begins, the forage,
the panic of shelter and safety,
cures for hunger and loneliness.

And yet survival
isn’t the answer entirely.
We want a theme song,
God beaming down backstage,
a waterfall confirming our singular bravery.

What are we to make, then,
of our disasters? Are they not equally
spectacular? Can we not thank God
for spinning the story southward,
hellward, away from our golden halos?

Even darkness has its defiant pleasure,
its outrageous glory. Without a flag to herald
our descent, without lyrics to lessen the fall,
without poetry to take the sting out,
we fling ourselves against the current, our muscles
all twist and torque, the body of our heart
shuddering in cold solitude.

We cannot live through anything alone.
The islands we think we can claim for victory
are castoffs from the mainland.
We cannot live through anything alone.
From sheer rock someone articulates a profile.
We cannot live through anything alone.
A desert interrupted by oasis.
We cannot live through anything alone.
Each cry of despair
has an echo.

Here. Take this hand.
It is big enough
for all of us.