THE LOST CITY

 

We pondered the popular myths of our childhood,

large and small, the blurred and grainy image

of Bigfoot walking through the woods,

so alone that we felt more sympathy than fear;

considered whether to spend our weekly allowance

on those X-ray glasses or sea monkeys

advertised in the backs of our comic books,

those other worlds of myth and muscle,

where humanity, which had been so foolish,

was always saved at the last possible moment.

We wondered, too, where all those planes

and ships had vanished, their signals lost forever,

while attempting to cross the Bermuda Triangle.

Wondered how many miles into the ocean

the lost city of Atlantis -- which we knew to be

true -- could be, and if one of us ever traveled there

in this lifetime without the other, how we might

send word back to the bright world above.

It's the way I speak to you now, brother,

through the weight and distance of all these years,

your reply moving slowly through the waves

while I wonder at the beauty of that city,

sparks of ancient light flashing against its glass,

a story, like you, I am not willing to let go.

THE BUGGY

 

You won't remember now being quite

so small, combing that long stretch of Carolina

sand for rocks, shells, anything shining,

the ocean insistently whispering its secret

language, untranslatable upon land.

Nor will you recall the wheels of your stroller

edging closer and closer to the waves,

so slowly that none of us took notice,

none but that stout Eastern European woman

in head scarf, waving her thick arms,

shouting in alarm, "The buggy! The buggy!'

For one flashing moment, my heart leapt

like a startled fish, believing she might actually

be right, that you might be spirited away

by the unforgiving Atlantic, to Scotland

or Wales, those fabled white cliffs of Dover,

closer to your family's ancestral home

but further from the ones who love you here.

But, of course, you were right there

when we turned to look, your beach hat

shielding your eyes, your chubby legs

just beginning to learn what they're for,

ready, soon enough, to carry you anywhere.

COUSTEAU

 

We liked the sound of his voice, balanced

somewhere between childlike wonder

and the calm certainty of knowing,

filtering through the small television speaker.

We liked his red cap bobbing against

the shifting blue, his sun-weathered skin,

hands gently cradling one alien lifeform

or another, startled into being, reaching out

in all directions at the expanse of air.

We loved most the strangeness of it all,

every new thing in search of a name,

this kingdom so far removed from the drab

certainty of classrooms and housing projects.

How else could we have known that

the world, like us, was made mostly of water,

how else to imagine our small bodies

descending into darkness unafraid,

suddenly weightless among the current,

how else could we have ever believed

in all the beauty we could not see?