Through the mist is the Indian Ocean. A body of water.
Waters filled with bodies. On my way to Christmas Island
I flew over this ocean, heard the cries of the drowned,
of the loved ones of those who have become
my loved ones. From the plane’s window
I saw arms reaching toward me and grabbed
each hand only to find they were the ripple
of a choppy sea seen from above, not within.
I am told that in the deepest ocean,
when you know that your boat is about to break,
the water is dark, darker than anything known.
No-one tells me what colour this darkness is made of.
They tell me, with astonished eyes,
‘It is so so dark, so dark’.
Eyes float away.
On this dark day, I struggle to find the edges of the ocean.
Grey leads to grey. Sky to water. My eyes cannot distinguish
where it begins. The ends have washed into a river
mined for petty politics, salt and sand.
Water and bile become indistinguishable
amongst an impetus to consume and regurgitate
bodies; bodies of loved ones
who have become my loved ones.
The becoming of a loved one is a mystery of listening
and love. A becoming that struggles against voids. Voids
with slippery wet edges that collapse. When I sink
I discover, over again, that there is no way
to fill a void – be it mine or yours.
Water will not soothe.
Poetry echoes only absence.
Some wounds are too deep to enter.