I peed
in the float tank
to whale
song, let it migrate
all around,
as I did in the womb
to Peter,
Paul and Mary—the only record
my
parents' owned. Something salty,
seasoned
and recycled is never far away.
It’s
unsaid but expected, we’re meant to
relax, it’s
factored into the price of entry.
I opened
the hatch and they sung me in
to that
dull repetition of self. It looped—
don’t panic!—it’s
the done deal. Fear
the one
who climbs out still frazzled.
So I truly
escaped, weightless, guiltless,
beyond
the rituals I was born into. I peed
and the
whales just kept on returning.
Folk’s
dead, despite the comeback of vinyl.
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