It comes floating up from the depths:
trailing scarves of pond scum, ancient
body flaccid now but the old hate still
flashing dully in a few umber scales. Once
I bent my head to drink from the green
waters, and with the first swallow
was betrothed. I was not taken away
to a kingdom of glass and mirrors,
to a country where night was changed by
day. My life was a spell: a series of small,
daily surrenders. My captor taught me
of anger, how fists find hollows in walls.
I was not supposed to stand in the way:
was meant to give and bend, lie still, let
the ordinary life settle over me as a fine
net fallen on every surface. I look my terror
in the eye and ask what brings him out of the old,
dank silence; how much of his own life remains.