The Ocean

some,
like those plunged into the depths of the ocean,
must struggle upwards,
always upwards,
toward the light and the surf,
toward the sun and the drifting wood,
toward the day and the night
and the laughter of children
and the chatter of seagulls.

i,
born on the surface,
floating with the plankton,
let myself sink and struggled to rise,
dove again into the black depths,
wanting the sensation of
burning lungs,
burning joints,
desperate eyes,
lips pinched tightly between trembling teeth.

can the experience ever be the same?
one thrown,
one going willingly,
one forced,
one wondering in the direction of
one in pain,
one swimming into an abstraction?

can the crests of waves ever empathize
with the corpse
at the bottom of the sea?
can they ask of the bloated remains
that rise to the surface:
what was it like?
how did it feel?

i wish i had been there –
there on that day
when you were dragged so far down.
i wish i had struggled upward with you,
choking on my own lack of oxygen,
wondering if i would ever reach the surface.

i wish i had been there when you

broke through the waves,
laughed with the wind,
and jumped into the sky.