Undertow

I’m running down the corridors,
Late for my watch on the bridge,
For captain’s mast, for General Quarters.
It’s winter, my face frigid:

Why is my uniform tropical white?
Down the passageway
Of shadowless fluorescent light
I gasp, but the view stays

Unchanged—a tunnel of painted steel.
I’m yelling: I did my time—
And I resigned! This can’t be real!
But all the ladders I climb

Now lead to where the lifeboat is stored.
The PA speakers blast:
Man overboard! Man overboard!
The boat’s being lowered. I’m last

To grab a ratline and clamber in.
My grip slips on the line—
I hit the water. And wake: my skin
Slick with the old brine.

Your donation sustains our efforts to inspire joyous rediscoveries.

Michael Spence’s new book, Umbilical (St. Augustine’s Press), won The New Criterion Poetry Prize.

Topics: Poetry

Download