Water Demons

Image borrowed from Bing

Water Demons

I was born stinking of fear
with vile placenta fluids rushing
off me, and I found that lying
damp in my own urine began
to deepen some unorthodox terror
of all things aqueous, growing up afraid
of the rain, finding devils in the puddles
left by terrible torrents; even mud
would snarl at me.

Showers were worse than baths
as I screamed through every washing.
I could, though, close my eyes sometimes
and that horrible clutching crawling
would retreat, allowing me to swim,
dog paddle, wallow, and be drenched
in my dreams; only to wake up wet,
frightened of my own sweat
as it slithered over every arroyo
of my husk, leaving no refuge,
no island above the tide, all covered,
shamefully soaked.

I mistakenly thought I was a water warrior
and every day I fought the demons,
bashing and banging and bludgeoning
my beautiful dry fists into their feral faces
as the sad slime mist swirled all about me,
always the fighter, never the victim
until one damned obnoxious imp whispered
in my ear that “resistance was futile”,
for “man is born to be driftwood, floating forever
on the ocean inside.” No escape.

None of that matters now,
for I have journeyed through hell-dampness
for the last time as I lie here
on this flat hot rock, stretching out,
bleached like an abandoned bone,
brittle as a fall leaf, skin crinkling like crepe,
staring blind into the desert noon sun,
as the last gob of spittle, the last drop of sweat
has evaporated, the last plume of wetness
has left my ship run aground, my cracked lips
locked into a petrified smile
greeting the death wind, letting it tousle
through my dry hair; at last, at last
all is good as the red hot sand
fills my mouth.

Glenn Buttkus

July 2011

Listed as #60 over on Magpie Tales 72

Would you like to hear the Author read this poem to you?