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LIQUID BREATHING

He holds my face, hard

to the grindstone of reality

to the course grit of things as they really are

His grip in my neck remains firm, resolute

He will not let me escape

(for long, at least)

into the realms of romantic fiction,

disengaged, floating,

but,

Holding my head underwater,

until,

in spite of my spastic struggling

in spite of all my raging

against the dying of the light

Holding my head underwater

until,

in spite of everything I do,

I drown

my lungs fill with water

with lungs full of water

I find She is teaching me

teaching me liquid breathing,

foetal breathing

Mother-breathing for me

She holds my breath for me

waiting for me to be born,

again

to take my own first breath

again.