have found the afterlife. It is silt and torpid current
where nights are only slightly darker than the days, where
blue and yellow fish inspect these chambers, kissing my
emptiness. I have grown very cold inside.
assembled me with pride by the Baltic Sea. In 1942, across
the Atlantic, I sank one tanker and three freighters. The
elation was mechanicalthe churn of pistons, the swiveling
of periscope, the greased turning of gears and shaft. I
went down with engines out in high seas, off North Carolina,
the roiled waters choking quickly our shocked moans.
now through this hatch. First adjust your buoyancy. Yes,
bring light and line. Dont snag your tank or hose
on that bulkhead rip.
the vacancy of these bays and beds. Down this corridor,
in the galley, plankton dine in silence. Come further, yes.
In the navigation room, to your left, the maps and charts
that spider crab with black and spindly legs. . . it is
my story with you, if you wish. Go now. Go live out your
little life until your little death. Know that all is oceanic.
have performed the striptease of ego, hate, and power.
with care. Not too fast. Dont hold the breath. For
it is in time, not out of it, that you must now progress.
from torpedo tubes