Excavations

Crossing the Waters

It's an anticipation, not unlike
the time you had to get up in front
of the whole third grade and recited
that passage from the Tibetan book.
A shiver. Your stomach contracts
and you taste cold sweat. But then
it's time to be off and so you clutch
your loved one's hands, your stuffed bear, your identification;
and knowing yourself to be alone
you get on board. All strapped in
and engines revving, roaring
to get off - and then you're lifted
dizzyqueasy off the ground,
fear of flying, of a strange land
making sourness in the hollow pressure within
against which you swallow. It's your throat,
it's only your throat...And you're sick now,
really officially sick, but
it's alea iacta est from now on
because you can see the clouds under
your flightpath - and the turbulence
from your heart going thudthudthud
against the cabin is your only bolster
against the groundless terror of leaving.
Of flight against the world. It's a sort
of death. Your revolt against your body.
Your head that screams in the arms
of the restraining stewardesses, as you make
your descent into the underworld:
How many seeds did you eat? enough
to wish yourself trapped forever,
even if it's only a season, a scant
year of it. Time to pay your ferryman,
to give in to the customs
of your strange new land. Your cavern
is now your home.