Visibility diminishes at greater depth, so our destination
(home) recedes with memory. Meaning, currents blanket
landmarks; an ocean, once invoked, distorts echoes. Frost
accumulates porch-side. We assemble with our logbooks
and photos, attempt to chart safe passage through a future
where houses outlive parents. There’s another with missiles
fired in our name. But we disagree about revenge: the threat
—value—theory—of it. Finches sing. Like canaries telling us
wind is safe to breathe today, our klaxon just a car alarm
we learn to forget. Every dive is a visit. We roll and lurch
toward the seafloor. Bubbles rise. I’m trying to decipher
ballast versus buoyancy when they flood the entryway
with music and neighbors, toasting. I listen for whether
this is a drill, for leveling pressure—when hatches
must open. A dozen lungs inflate to speak or escape.
Ceridwen Hall recently completed a PhD at the University of Utah. Her work appears or is forthcoming in The Cincinnati Review, Triquarterly, Salamander, Spoon River Poetry, Pembroke Magazine, and elsewhere. She is the author of a chapbook, Automotive, forthcoming from Finishing Line Press.