A swell needs only a brief shiver of motion to summon its force; seawater folding into itself, thrum rising upon thrum
until that pounding cadence within you hauls you toward the gloom-drowned basement of your perception where no
ray ever wanders and only damp, alien beings persist, where the strain of being feels like pressure wrenching your ribs
apart as your lungs balloon like carnival inflatables, where your nerves fling your limbs through pitch-thick tides as if
you were a marionette and the faint beacon-glimmer ahead can’t uncover whatever waits beyond, until you let breath
slip free and see your own bubbles carry you upward and the torrent fades, fear thinning with the silt as warmth
hardens the saltwater against your trembling heart.
David M. Alper’s poetry appears in Press 53, Harpur Palate, Common Ground Review, and elsewhere. He is an educator in New York City.
ELEVENTH HOUR LITERARY 