What difference is there
between the blackness
of a fish’s mouth
and the blackness of a sea?
Or that of its shadow arrowing
through the deep?
Where did you sleep?
Which day felt the most like slow gravity?
Were you caught, shivering trapeze,
somewhere between throat and acid,
begging for a breath strong enough to end it all?
Or did you find a way to make
the days flow
smooth, even amidst all that empty?
Were your prayers ever empty rooms?
Was a room waiting for you down there? If so, did this room feel,
fit like a prayer?
Did you fit in with the food?
Were there whole ships
full of men less convicted than thee
trapped betwixt the bones of the beast?
Was this, tangible proof of your courage,
its own sort of salvation?
Is this what kept you buoyant, bright,
after three days dead with no one,
not even a tomb, to hold your name?
When you were finally freed,
did the world feel smaller?
Less worthy of rescue?