Keith Hoerner
I.
I stand in water. It sloshes ’round my scuffed black leather
wingtips, laps up the ankles of my rumpled dress slacks,
turns khaki to the color of murky brown. Onlookers furrow
their brows, incredulous that I do not see I am in danger of
drowning, that if I don’t make a move for it, the water will
continue to rise until it covers my soon-to-be-bald head.
What they do not realize is I have already drowned. Can
they not see my sopping clothes; the now seaweed green
tweed jacket; my wrinkled, white translucent skin? This
water is receding. I have survived my Biblical Flood. I am
coming up for air, not suffocating. My exploded lungs have
been cauterized; I now breathe shallower: but calm and
sure.
II.
I look for you, but waves wash you to another shore, an
island uncharted, perhaps,to inhibit my finding you. You
suffered so. Rather than buoy you up, my selfishness
climbed squarely on your shoulders and thrust you
downward. Pushed you under the electric bosom of a bloom
of pulsing jellyfish… until it was you who might have
passed away. Or did your shocking beauty simply meld with
theirs, escaping me as I first wondered? My hope is you did
get away. My prayer is you are dry and safe and content.
content. Even if it means I cannot be with you.
III.
I may not be dry, but I am drying out. I have always had a
dry sense of humor, a British sense of humor, I like to think.
Admittedly, I can be droll. My odd obsession with court
jesters remains a curious thing. Was it their tomfoolery or
their role in history? I don’t know. Whatever it might be, you
used to laugh at me more than the TV. I cannot hear you
laughing now. For me, it begs the question: when did you
turn it off? When was it you stopped laughing? Or was it
me—in one of my sardonic rants—who thought he had had
the last laugh?
IV.
You were always a giver. The problem is I’m a taker, was
a taker, for what it’s worth. And givers and takers are a
mismatch. I did what takers do; I took all you had to give,
emptied all your pockets and filled them with rocks: one
for each of my character defects. So, you stretched out your
arms and tried to swim away, but sank. Yet upon the first
swirling rush that separated my grip on you, you dropped
my rocks and swam untraceable among the camouflage of
coral reefs. So, here I am.
V.
Yes, I stand. I’m not buckled at the knees as before or dead
as expected. The lifeline you threw me caught ’round my
neck, but it worked. It was the one time when looking in
the end of a bottle, I actually saw a ship, and with it the
possibility of steerage to a new land… dry land. Its pasted,
miniature masts and cotton-twill sails still able to bear my
living freight and move me to a healthy destination. You
equipped me to survive the flood in the face of selfharm.
How can I repay you? By letting you go? By not even
thinking to follow you?
VI.
The small ship, pulled out for embarkation, is now crushed
to bits beneath my feet. Peer close, and I might even pass
for the Giant Polybotes, bane of the God Poseidon, standing
on a shipwreck from the battle of Nisyros. A broken bow
floats out to the Aegean Sea. An anchor pulls the splintered
spine of this ark into the pit of a dark swell. I was supposed
to find Terra Firma by Noah’s mandate as one of a pair. I
beg you. But I’ll force myself to understand, if I am to go at
it alone.
VII.
If it is what you need, I will unabashedly say it aloud, I no
longer drown myself in bottles, thanks to you. So, I will
stay clear of the companionway and wish your sails full
billows to get you to your place of secret solace. I will not
follow you. Though I will always think of you, and if you will
allow… I’ll tightly scroll this missive, slip it into this bottle
here, then toss it far in the direction I hope will one day
reach you.