A Forest Gasping Underwater; Survival Ritual by David Hanlon

A Forest Gasping Underwater

The memory is dense:

a forest gasping underwater—

kelp bowing,

spires vanishing into gloom.

Bladders brim

with the air we shared.

I hold my breath,

wander the seabed—

starfish-drawn,

manatee-heavy—

thrashing stems,

rending fronds aside.

I gasp in the murk,

combing the fathomless waters—

vast as pupils

dilating from a grain of sand—

for his green breath:

ancient, exhaling.

I rupture cysts of air

with hunger’s teeth;

lungs bloom, gasping

on stale breath.

Still, I search.

All I find:

ashen blades,

brittle, bleached—

once golden

in his sunlight,

where the forest gasped

for him.

Survival Ritual

I abandon Moby Dick

and call it too niche.

Do one hundred press-ups

on a square mauve rug,

hear myself in the tap-tap

of a crow at the window,

slide one slipper into the other

and exhale slowly.

Scan my wonky bookshelf

for beginnings, for answers.

Carry a small orchid

and listen to Lana Del Rey.

Pull the skin at my neck

when thoughts hear a starting gun.

Sprint up steep staircases

like a horror-movie victim.

Trace my restless tongue

along every tooth, every gap.

Spit out sauerkraut. Reject durian.

Fan out new peacock feathers.

Transform into the caladrius,

turn snow-white myth into reality.

Sweep attention over my body,

mapping each bone, each pulse,

claiming the space I occupy.