May 14, 2020

Dance of the Bad Water Bug

I am only beginning to arrive in this place.
I have been skimming the surface, a water strider,
but a wretched one, always breaking the skinned
tension, dipping, tripping, dripping wet, when all
my kind are dry, expertly, above the water line.

I have no such expertise. I want to go below,
explore the depths – or just one, perhaps, with
the many it holds. I want to dwell a while – long
enough, at least, to become made of the stuff
of the place, my tissues consisting of its trace

minerals. It seems I was born too late for this.
My kin have thoroughly adapted themselves to
Life Above. I lack the instinct and anatomy for
this cooler, denser place, where sound and light
slow and bend, my tools ill-suited, my limbs and

lungs ill-formed. And yet . . . and yet . . .
This place feels like home, ancient and enduring,
outlasting all adaptations my kith have devised,
expertly, to escape its pressure. I have much
to learn. I study the habits of creatures who

returned here long ago, or never left. I have no
muscle memory, so I settle for muscle mimicry.
I will arrive by motion, fitting myself – perhaps
my kith and kind again – to this place, by taking
up the dance of masters in the arts of Life Below.