Phantom of the Loch

Better they not find me.
Left to the imagination
I remain perfect,
a greased muscle
flexed and pulsed
against the cold
steel of water.

But they keep coming--
with binoculars,
surveillance cameras,
hound me so
I cannot even swim
near green reeds,
smell damp earth.

I give them their
occasional picture,
poke my head up
through the bleary surface,
submit to brief
hushed observation,
finger pointing.

But the gawkers
never get enough,
so I sink back to
depths undiscovered
by wet-suited divers
who cannot sustain
this weight of water.

Deep down
amid plankton,
root slime,
elementary rock,
I cleave where no
glint of light filters,
breathe black water.

I glide among sleek
bug-eyed fish,
thick ageless worms
who dart past,
let me swim
undisturbed on
the soft muck bottom.

Yes, sometimes
I covet sky,
crave a bit of sun
on my damp skin,
petal-soft breeze
of early spring,
wildflower color.

But how can I rise
when I am sought,
by creatures who
poke and probe,
see their world
through skewed lenses?
What do they want?

Don't they know
I am skin, bone,
blood, gristle, nerve,
spark blooming
at the very center,
nothing special?
They already know me.

Better I stay here,
below the reach
of their sonar devices,
near the mud-
sludge bottom,
seeing with my one clear
prehistorical eye.

Copyright © 2003 The President and Fellows of Harvard College.
All rights reserved. Comments. Last modified Tue, Dec 9, 2003.