Aquaria

A poem by Eileen Malone

Sun is trapped in the surface above us
in the glare streaked monastic-library dark of aquaria
filtered like inquiring voices of children and grown-ups
that blend to a uniform murmur, a subhuman drone
of distant choirs that plunge fish-lit shafts of daylight
into visual hosannas, the meanings of which escape me
the essences of which form like cubes of water

deference is duly paid to the ceiling of light
to the unseen, unimaginable brightness
through and above windows that float on black walls
foreign sources of necessary surprises, sea sights
of green and gold illuminations, spangled flesh
transfinite flashes of benevolent silver fishtails
that trail like aquatic comets, sharks, urchins
gatherers of barnacles, great beginnings
where the ends of things are always present

perhaps I deify these hinged mouths and milky eyes
wise as shipwrecks, glorifying all microscopic
sacrosanct, glitter-lit flutterings that achieve
darting levels of enigma, of motion so fast
they seem to be racing winks of air bubbles
swimming from shells to be cloned as cells
—schools of souls streaking holy with honor
for their moist birthing from a cold-blooded goddess

mercifully, no one asks if I need help
and I am allowed to gradually diminish, to browse
to respect hints of ocean floors lit by torrid noons

I am left alone to take heed, grapple with reflections
attain prismatic states of high lightness
understand what it was I tried so hard to contemplate
in convent churches and patriarchal cathedrals
doing at last in an unconsecrated crypt what I once called
for lack of any ability to see into things,
praying.

"Aquaria" was previously published in Atlanta Review.

Copyright 2006 by Eileen Malone