Untitled – Ren Weber

I. Exposition – First Memories

I am two years old, wailing in my mother’s lap.
It is probably afternoon,
because yellow light filters in onto my pale arms,
and my pale arms don’t seem real,
because nothing seems real,
 
it feels too lucid to be dreaming

and the warm light obscures my vision of her face,
and then, suddenly, we’re at the beach,
Probably time has passed,
because it is late afternoon,
It could’ve been a different day or week, I can’t remember,
but somehow the memories connect…

I am watching a wet dog descend into the bay,
its black fur fogs into the sand, into the shore, into the water.
For a moment the scene obscures,
and suddenly the dog is gone, and I am crying,
and there is sand in my eyes
and there is water in my mouth.
I turn to my mother,
 
but I can’t see her,

because all I can see is the glow,
and the light, and the dark, and dark, and dark.

II. Rising Action – Eulogies

I have recognized loneliness.
It is easy pain to ignore.
The dull ache hums at me for a few whiles,
And I may not sleep in disregard.
Of course, the ache is eventually subdued.
the loneliness takes a dip,
dims, and
instead whimpers into a sepia kind of pain.
for a while I rust into obscurity,
and gently oxidize with everyone else.
there is no use in fighting my own eulogy.

(It is not a good thing to think about eulogies
when diving into the waves.
In such close proximity to constant death,
it’s an unhealthy routine;
Instead, while pondering in the water,
think about the lucidity of air;
The sea, in comparison, has habit of being like a dream.)

III. Rising Action – Immersions

Rust is caking my nail beds—I have been underwater for too long.
Watch as I swell into insecurity,
the waves accepting me anyway.
It reminds me of when I was young.
So long ago, do you remember the bay?
Do you remember the wet dog and the shore?
This is a banal recollection,
a tedious apothecary that supplies needless remedies.

This is my pelagic baptism,
my aquarius naming,
proving that I am still the sea disciple.

The waves have quieted.
I cannot see anymore…
marine phlegm has begun
to seep into my corneas.
my skin is creasing, twisting,
become a polychromatic prune—I have been underwater for too long.

IV. Climax – Pinnacles

I resurface,
And, as a juxtaposition of my clarity,
GASP and flail in the waves.
(this is human instinct and a survival mechanism,
and, if anything, a little annoying.)
the resonance of air is crippling.
the waves, keen to submerge me again,
silently flex and cuff at my shoulders.
i am GASPING and GULPING
the world spins into twelve thousand gasps of blue air.

V. Falling Action – Disclosures

someone is pulling me out of the water

(it is probably you)

VI. Falling Action – Epiphanies

the last demersal particles have left me;
i have been reborn to the sand.

you lunged at me,
pulling me out of the water
i am coughing, and I am crying,
and there is sand in my eyes
and there is water in my mouth.
 
I reach for you, but find nothing…
the breeze is    intangible.

VII. Resolution – Omissions

I have been told that I have one of
those strange, always-familiar faces.
so does the ocean. it is ever-recognized.
it is a keen, overgrown brine,
everything constantly birthing and dying—

but there are no eulogies.
there are no obituaries.

The sea is unapologetic in that way…
it careens waves
in constant aquatic ellipsis;

The loneliness grows on me like
kelp, and the rust doesn’t come off my fingers.
I realize that i am twisting into unimportance.

you think:
this isn’t much of a resolution.
i laugh in agreement.


Ren WeberRen Weber is a writer living in San Francisco.