Visitations From Architeuthis

I feel their pulse in the deep
waters of my dreams: black ink
in blackened water. With surfboard
I must resemble some water-

walker afloat in his sleep,
which is strange since I don't think
I've ever surfed. And the Lord
says Let there be squid, O daughters

of Medusa. Let them leap
into My great lap or sink.
One can imagine being bored
with mites and ticks, the bother

of the minute. Even sheep
fluff God's ennui on the brink
of sheer sleep. But I bring the sword
to bed when I sink further

down. Any Russian oarsman
will tell you: life is too small
to dream of giant squid. Better
to collapse by the sperm whale

carcass, leave the rest to fans—
teuthologists mauled
in gnashing chitin. Fettered
in the beak of sleep, they'll flail

to no avail. Understand:
the length of telephone poles,
these boat-crackers will flutter
on the surface like coattails

upside-down and restless. Land
is far too far away. The old
stories of hundred footers
bear-hugging hulls: nothing wails

like a giant squid. No other beast
sees with irises the size
of human heads. Nothing kills
time like dreaming of Maldive

Islands, doing what I least
expect: surfing. Miniaturized,
I wait like huge krill.
What else to do? Should I dive

down and duke it out, my fists
swimming by his eyes like lures?
What then? A rip and huge quill
I yank out of him alive?

He'd spiral down—some feast
for creatures less likely, cries
of joy as from fishes, shrill.
Awake and greet the day. Love,

the Lord says, is larger still
than giant squid. Please keep us whole.
Crush the giant's will. Wake us,
our little arms reaching toward you.

Copyright © 2003 Chad Davidson All rights reserved
from Elixir
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission