Scraping
he digs in the dank, fetid mud
for grubs
blind in the obsidian dark
flinching at sudden echoes –
a howling scream
an anguished groan
unholy knocking –
the vibrations of constant peril
that seethe
and seep.
Scratching
the weeping fish-child
claws inside his ribcage
first feeble, then insistent
her wordless plea
to be released.
She is starving,
septic and disintegrating.
She would rather die outside
breathing free
in the fetid cave.
But her death
would mean the end
and if for nothing else
his life is forfeit.
So with heroic strain
over two whole days
he heaves himself up
and stands for the first time
on flayed, emaciated limbs
and
starts
walking.
Years pass.
Guided only by his swollen cranium,
the legacy
of perpetual vigilance
and night vision,
one day:
a pinprick in the dark
a lonely star
a homing beacon.
Like a tender sprout
defying waning winter
she pushes her soft form
towards the light,
tearing through
as his rends his flesh
giving way
like a mother to an overdue fetus
all agony and sad relief.
They gaze at each other
in the bloody afterglow
as the nascent beam
widens.
“I am you, and you are me.
Nothing matters more than this.
I will cradle you against my clavicle
give you room in my lungs
breathe you in and out
and shield you with my bones.
“Come,
connect your umbilicus to mine
and let your righteous tears
stain these dungeon walls.
Together, we will find home.”
And like pilgrims
they walk faithfully
towards the growing orb
pale faces following light
like sunflowers.
© S. Rinderle, August 2024
[*Written in response to Lexa de Swaenen’s artwork of the same title, used with permission. Please explore her stunning creations on her website.]
