Back to My People

by John Grey

After a half hour of plowing through

the eerie silence of the bay's depths,

it was time to surface,

a slow launch from the sandy bottom

toward the sun-sparkled undercarriage of the sea.

The boat was waiting, my people too.

Hands reached down to haul me aboard.

Like that time when the fever broke —

I could feel myself emerging

from a smoke-filled fiery room

into the clear pure air

and the arms of some of those same people.

Or, as a child,

shaken awake by nightmare,

drawn to comfort by the muffled snores

of my parent's in the room next door.

Off came my wet-suit.

The wine was already uncorked.

All that was left was for me

to describe everything that I saw.

Like a beautiful fever, I said.

Like a nightmare