The Brazilian Cliff Diver

The Brazilian Cliff Diver


"There is no bottom to this."
Kim Addonizio's "Flood"


He dove hard and fast,
unlike other men,
and found the deepest part
so quick it took her breath away.
Some things always last,
and some go very, very fast.

She knew him when she saw his eyes across the barroom
and in those eyes, that tender crust of salt and crayfish ooze
dried to a golden crystal;
just there, at the end of the bar,
drinking a white liqueur--sipping it almost--
she knew then, just what he could do.

Remembering his brown body as he stood
rigid, then like a salmon caught mid-leap
a flutter of movement, and then the jump
the cliff's edge falling away
the turn, the arch,
but not too much--
and then the penetration,
surfaces slide aside
like the opennings of fleshy gills
rhythmically contracting waves
as he disappears within
the waters
and then the wait.

What would he find there, once he was inside?
What would be there, in the silence
and the crabshell ooze?
More colors than a gutted trout?
More tastes than at Captain Nemo's last buffet?
More deepening pressure than the weight of Earth's first ocean?
Who can say,
but at that moment, finally, his body twisted, began the turn,
and rose up from the depths.

Up, up he rose, past the thickness of the silt,
past the lounge room of some lost Titanic,
past the long-lost condominiums of Atlantis,
past the crabs, with their pale diaphanous shells,
past the scaly sea-worts, scarred and burned,
past the Korean pool-boy's form-
fitted Speedos, lost once in the undertow.

Up, up,
past the sleeping fish
the cliff diver rose,
like a Japanese pearl diver coming up for air
and there she was--
he found her like a catfish flopping on a table
and nothing needed to be said.

Even though her Portuguese was faulty,
his English was broken, barely knew a word,
things passed between them, like electric eels,
and cunningly they learned.

The Strangest MRDP I Ever Did See

The Strangest MRDP I Ever Did See

        "They can't separate probably...."
        Robert Hass' "Dragonflies Mating"

One day walking in a tangled wood
Past the cool stream
Past the weeping stand of willows
Under the warm sun, beaming down,
I saw them.

They lay there, almost helpless,
Writhing in the agony of the damned,
        Angels,
Two of them, joined at the hip,
The strangest MRDP I ever did see on earth.

And what was really strange,
About angels, I mean,
Was they have no breasts,
Not even the merest vestigial Vestal vessels for the
Milk of human kindness....
Looking at them is hard on the eyes 'cause bisexually
        They look, one way, male
        And, another way, female
And even the (I think) female has breasts no bigger
Than a double AA cup, like a Pre-teenager
And the (I think) male looked like a boy
With a caved-in sunken chest and sticky-outee nipples
Like an bitch that just gave birth last week.

Their skin was slickly white, like a marbleized plaster bust
And the rock-like flesh did not give at all
To the pressure of the rocks and leaves and sticks
That were under them, pushing up, as they thrashed around.
But this same marble skin was covered with honey,
At least it looked like honey, or perhaps it was
The yellowed bee-extruded licorice-looking Ambrosial
        Sweat of Angels
Who, flying in the night, connect (by accident)
Crashing together like blind seagulls (at least
That's the story they'll tell later).
But here they were, stuck together like two dogs
Caught and helpless in their passion, needing a bucket of water
Thrown on them.

And as they rolled across the grass, the leaves
Stuck to their waxy, honeyed limbs, like rose petals
Clinging to the bees that had assaulted them (sexually).

Taking pity on their sufferings, I found a long limb
Broken in a storm from an old elm (useless for a fireplace)
And, raising it over my head, brought it down across their
Head&shoulders repeatedly, again and again, until
In more than mortal pain&anguish, they pulled apart
And then, without a by-your-leave, or thanks (to me) of any kind
They sprouted enormous wings and flapping
Lifted themselves into the empty sky.

Nothing else of note happened that day
Except my hands--even to this day--have the smell
Of burnt cat-piss, just like an elm branch thrown in the fire.

You don't believe me? Here, smell my finger.


-----------------------------------------------
Eric Dutton suggests that "MRDP" stands for Mystical Realization of
Divine Providence, and another reader suggests Magical Realist Double Penetration, but the reader can choose whatever phrase seems most appropriate.


This poem was first published in Arkansas Literary Forum
http://fac.hsu.edu/beggsm/ALF/2003/lee2.htm