Aureliano Segundo ask[ed the Arabs] with his usual informality what mysterious resources they had relied upon so as not to have gone awash in the storm . . . one after the other, from door to door, they returned a crafty smile and a dreamy look, and without any previous consultation they all gave the answer:
“Swimming.”
—Gabriel Garcia Marques, One Hundred Years of Solitude
Leave home. Take what
I want to survive.
The rest: waterlogged,
pawned, landfilled
by landlords, emptied
photographs of Petra,
Pyramids, child eyes
kneaded into layers of
pecan shells, diapers,
coke cans, chicken bones.
Chew pith, sweet with bitter.
Know father could carry
less over the Jordan River
and all waters after that.
How he loved even
the worst fried chicken.
I only wear 20%
of the identities I own
80% of the time. Remember
sunk costs of saving
those who don’t want my help.
Good daughter, ungrateful
American, robot. Learn
organic chemistry and become
the Teflon they say I am.
Give one past me away,
everyday. Declutter sorrys,
hoarded words, lab coat,
hair straightener, southern drawl.
Fill a bag with memory
clutter. Use a different bag
to control my breathing.
Take pictures from
river to unattainable sea,
of any journey to the ocean
for when I forget what
I promised myself, and him.
Replace memories evicted,
displace inheritance of displacement,
so I could savor the shore
while I was still young.
One more reminder: a wound,
a hope, a desire expands
to fill the space I allow it.
The River Jordan dries up
by baptism held at a rifle’s end
while the rising Western seafront
advances on its deathwish.
My promise: I breathe life and
don’t release a thing to the sea.
It is filled with enough trash
human intention already,
hoards everything we give it.
Take with you only
what you want to survive.
Trust the small creatures
who tread these waves of passage,
coiling your hair to currents,