Imitations of Drowningof drowning, fear of being that alone, kept me busy making a deal as if I could buy my way out of it and it worked for two years and all of July. This August I began to dream of drowning. The dying went on and on in water as white and clear as the gin I drink each day at half-past five. Going down for the last time, the last breath lying, I grapple with eels like ropes - it's ether, it's queer and then, at last, it's done. Now the scavengers arrive, the hard crawlers who come to clean up the ocean floor. And death, that old butcher, will bother me no more. I had never had this dream before except twice when my parents clung to rafts and sat together for death, frozen like lewd photographs. Who listens to dreams? Only symbols for something - like money for the analyst or your mother's wig, the arm I almost lost in the washroom wringer, following fear to its core, tugging the old string. But real drowning is for someone else. It's too big to put in your mouth on purpose, it puts hot stingers in your tongue and vomit in your nose as your lungs break. Tossed like a wet dog by that juggler, you die awake. Fear, a motor, pumps me around and around until I fade slowly and the crowd laughs. I fade out, an old bicycle rider whose odds are measured in actuary graphs. This weekend the papers were black with the new highway fatalities and in Boston the strangler found another victim and we were all in Truro drinking beer and writing checks. The others rode the surf, commanding rafts like sleighs. I swam - but the tide came in like ten thousand orgasms. I swam - but the waves were higher than horses' necks. I was shut up in that closet, until, biting the door, they dragged me out, dribbling urine on the gritty shore. Breathe! And you'll know . . . an ant in a pot of chocolate, it boils and surrounds you. There is no news in fear but in the end it's fear that drowns you. By Anne Sexton From the book - Live or Die |