Deaf American Poetry: An Anthology

Diving Bell

Christopher Jon Heuer 252 Diving Bell I am alone among familiar faces— shiny fish that smile at me in hallways and at dinners, blowing out their lists of safe questions, sure to be understood. How are you, sprayed out in a fury of white foam. They wave their great fins so that I will know it is me they are talking about. My diving bell is heavy, the oxygen turns bad fast. Nonetheless I say I’m fine. How are you? Teeth flash and their eyes crinkle, like happy piranhas. Blowing bubbles. I laugh with them like I step on the brakes of my car at red lights. Dull depths, gray streets. Swimming through one intersection after another, somewhere else to somewhere else. On and off, words blinking Morse, or Chinese. I choke in the bell, I kick myself dead. The fish watch, and say that I am angry. But that weight, all that weight. The pressure builds, creating flying splinters that draw blood. Going down. I say I am fine. Traffic flows smooth around me, blinking on and off. My hands are flat, white, pushing on the glass, without gesture. There’s no air, there’s no air! The fish follow me down in slow spirals, nervous and a mystery. Somewhere else to somewhere else. Nothing at all is wrong. ...