b a r b a r a  f l e t c h e r: other poems


Hyperlimnion

What happened to those minutes
when the drugs pulled my memory
under water, coaxed consciousness
into the hyperlimnion where the water
never warms, never moves, barely breathes.
Did I swim somewhere with you?
Did I find something beautiful that will resurface
only in poetry: or will it remain a silent
unstirred part of me, my own cache of cold
and still water that insulates memory,
doesn't leave the depth of me, that silently
holds up my sentience as a trophy.