Expedition
What I’m learning about losing my mother is how everything’s wrinkle deep,
each fold a wave. Open-eyed expedition into the creases of blurry waters.
It’s not like diving, second-skinned, heavy with oxygen and flippers.
More like hold your breath, hug a limestone close to your naked chest,
submerge yourself into salt and watch what burns into focus. See?
There passes childhood, a wild armed octopus, sticking to a memory
I thought had been buried in sand. And there, the blobfish,
flabby and frowning, lips pressed against its bulbous nose. I reach for those things
with smoother skin, try to ground myself by grasping tentacle. Fin.
But everything slips. Everything stings. And everything, oh so murky. Ink spray.
© 2023 Katherine Gotthardt
Katherine Gotthardt is an award-winning poet and author of 11 books. Since the early 1990s, her work has appeared in publications such as Yankee magazine, Haigh-Ashbury Literary Journal, Frogpond, North of Oxford, Panoply and dozens of others. Her latest collection, Thirty Years of Cardinals Calling, was published by San Francisco Bay Press in 2022. A former adult education instructor, Katherine writes full-time supporting a government agency and is an avid volunteer. She is a founding member and co-president of Write by the Rails, the Prince William chapter of the Virginia Writers Club. Learn more at www.KatherineGotthardt.com.
30 for 30 is sponsored by Potomac Review
Lovely!
Oh so murky—a wild armed octopus—some truly original images of grief!
Thank you Paula and Sally.
So many vivid moments in this poem! Thank you for the vulnerability and the journey of this poem. It’s all so familiar…