clarke institute: triage

Our grieving bursts a pipe.
We eye each other and the door
as we begin to float.

'We're locked in, see?
We are each one of us
drowning already.'

A man with Rasputin eyes
crawls into his own cupped hands.
I can't tell whose shoes I'm wearing.

'He who is without shame,
bang on the door!'

I am handed a four-inch snorkel.
Looking down I see rows
of white plastic chair-fish.

Our heads bob against the ceiling
like a Whack-A-Mole game.
We sputter.

'I was never told
the side effects
of breathing.'

A man with a Rasputin beard dives
and isn't seen again.

The air goes and I wince as gills
appear on my neck. We are now
each one of us aquatic.


Edit: This poem appearing in Twaddle 3, 2008