Standing on a catwalk above a pool,
I look through chain link. The cage prohibits falls,
dives, or descents down sharp rocks for dips.
The pool once lay underground until
a violent shifting of earth exposed it to sky.
Descending into the cave's warm broth, several
divers once drowned in its deceptive depths,
one not found, like the hole's bottom, deeper
than five hundred feet. I stare at algae—
pupfish food—created when sunlight angles
in to touch a rock shelf during the longest
days of the year. As rising water swallows
more of the shelf, alarmed scientists study
a declining pupfish population. My cage
sways in hundred-degree wind, my eyes
hypnotized by green rectangles of wires
my fingers have wrapped themselves around. I hang
from them as inner waves make me crave
solid footing. The fish below zip
from shelf to rock face, oblivious for sixty thousand
years to the world reeling above, to the naming
of their home for a fallen angel, to
another species’ investing itself in their
protection. Vertigo, like time, spins me
above this ancient fissure where survival
within a deeper, warmer pool pertains
to us all.
Beverly Boyd taught literature and writing for many years in Southern California before moving to the Central Coast. Until the pandemic ended such gatherings, she curated a quarterly poetry reading series at a local library for ten years. Her poems appear in American Journal of Nursing, Healing Muse, Miramar, Poem, Slant, and Slipstream as well as in Voices from the Porch (Main Street Rag), Corners of the Mouth (DeerTree Press), and Still You (Wolf Ridge Press). She is co-author of Where Our Palms Rest (Coalesce Press) with poets Carol Alma McPhee, Joann Rusch, and Bonnie Young.
Author photo and featured image both by R. D. Bowlus.
