Echeneis or Six Ways of Letting Go
by Madeleine Wattenberg
Eche’neis: the Remora, or Sucking-fish, which has on the crown of its head an oblong flat disk, or
sucker, by means of which it can adhere to foreign bodies.
from Greek: (to hold + ship)
sucker, by means of which it can adhere to foreign bodies.
from Greek: (to hold + ship)
I.
He asks if I’m a good swimmer.
I know enough to keep my head
above water. In the dark, movement matters
more than form. He swims under
and I disperse the surface.
When we meet the sailboat (him
ahead) I reach for a railing
until my joints drop loose
and down. How simply the lake
welcomes me, until I can’t tell the difference
between failure and return.
The boat rotates on her tether.
Blood flows gently as orchids from my arms,
and I am dark with the asking:
how long can we carry
our own bodies,
this heavy, private weight.
II.
Slick with the imagining of
a body that knows how to keep.
Little slack jawed remora
hidden in the eddies,
looking for something to adhere to
in the slippage of seaweed.
A ship swallows
itself at the horizon.
III.
to hold, to hold the ship
delay, darling, delay. I’m consuming time
and you, always pushing onward, so swift
and intent, and me, a hand always drawing you
back. The ship never meant
to not know time or movement, so immersed
that they drip from her sides, yet here kept apart
by the latch of a slat mouth.
I have no arms to throw against your hull,
but find me at the rudder sucking marrow.
Blame me not for your defeat, Antony.
Caligula passed only with my attention
on that long journey. Leave me in the brine
to lash against sediment. Half-hearted cartilage,
we’re young. Before you cross on
to the shore, delay. The dry voice of sand
grinding down to its final cause. Clamp
and hold. Now only yielding eddies. Only favored winds.
IV.
I let go. You go on.
I let go. You go on in a green boat.
I let go. You go on in a green boat toward a green shore.
I let go. You go on in a green boat toward a green shore and when you turned
I let go. You go on in a green boat toward a green shore and when you turned
it was to make sure you’d left none of the parts
I let go. You go on in a green boat toward a green shore and when you turned it was to make sure
you’d left none of the parts of yourself, not even an outline of what
I let go. You go on in a green boat toward a green shore and when you turned it was to make sure
you’d left none of the parts of yourself, not even an outline of what hovers over the glass waves, the
watery threshold holding, holding, held, a hand
I let go.
V.
The remora is lazy,
unbelonging
to the motion in which it takes part,
unspooling from its mouth
a secret chain
to wrap around the beloved.
To unfasten, it must catch the motion,
surpass the object.
Ghost flesh carved
from scale, a glint
of bitten shadow.
To strengthen its grip, the remora
slides into the past.
VI.
In the sailboat cabin, we raid the kitchen,
filling our hands with paper towels,
hammers, handles, until we’ve run out
of objects. I set aside the bottle of kerosene.
We are looking for wine.
We are looking for a way to run out
of things to hold.
The boat empties
for us and still we search. We remove
the roof, the slats, the little hinged counter.
Platter and cup. Everything—touched.
I grow tired of acceptance
and the stars’ fabricated gloss
through shallow waters. I accept this
as fact, that every reflection
adds a little weight. You seem
peaceful, he says,
as an ax floats up his tongue.
He asks if I’m a good swimmer.
I know enough to keep my head
above water. In the dark, movement matters
more than form. He swims under
and I disperse the surface.
When we meet the sailboat (him
ahead) I reach for a railing
until my joints drop loose
and down. How simply the lake
welcomes me, until I can’t tell the difference
between failure and return.
The boat rotates on her tether.
Blood flows gently as orchids from my arms,
and I am dark with the asking:
how long can we carry
our own bodies,
this heavy, private weight.
II.
Slick with the imagining of
a body that knows how to keep.
Little slack jawed remora
hidden in the eddies,
looking for something to adhere to
in the slippage of seaweed.
A ship swallows
itself at the horizon.
III.
to hold, to hold the ship
delay, darling, delay. I’m consuming time
and you, always pushing onward, so swift
and intent, and me, a hand always drawing you
back. The ship never meant
to not know time or movement, so immersed
that they drip from her sides, yet here kept apart
by the latch of a slat mouth.
I have no arms to throw against your hull,
but find me at the rudder sucking marrow.
Blame me not for your defeat, Antony.
Caligula passed only with my attention
on that long journey. Leave me in the brine
to lash against sediment. Half-hearted cartilage,
we’re young. Before you cross on
to the shore, delay. The dry voice of sand
grinding down to its final cause. Clamp
and hold. Now only yielding eddies. Only favored winds.
IV.
I let go. You go on.
I let go. You go on in a green boat.
I let go. You go on in a green boat toward a green shore.
I let go. You go on in a green boat toward a green shore and when you turned
I let go. You go on in a green boat toward a green shore and when you turned
it was to make sure you’d left none of the parts
I let go. You go on in a green boat toward a green shore and when you turned it was to make sure
you’d left none of the parts of yourself, not even an outline of what
I let go. You go on in a green boat toward a green shore and when you turned it was to make sure
you’d left none of the parts of yourself, not even an outline of what hovers over the glass waves, the
watery threshold holding, holding, held, a hand
I let go.
V.
The remora is lazy,
unbelonging
to the motion in which it takes part,
unspooling from its mouth
a secret chain
to wrap around the beloved.
To unfasten, it must catch the motion,
surpass the object.
Ghost flesh carved
from scale, a glint
of bitten shadow.
To strengthen its grip, the remora
slides into the past.
VI.
In the sailboat cabin, we raid the kitchen,
filling our hands with paper towels,
hammers, handles, until we’ve run out
of objects. I set aside the bottle of kerosene.
We are looking for wine.
We are looking for a way to run out
of things to hold.
The boat empties
for us and still we search. We remove
the roof, the slats, the little hinged counter.
Platter and cup. Everything—touched.
I grow tired of acceptance
and the stars’ fabricated gloss
through shallow waters. I accept this
as fact, that every reflection
adds a little weight. You seem
peaceful, he says,
as an ax floats up his tongue.
Madeleine Wattenberg studies poetry in the MFA program at George Mason University. She also holds an MA in English from the University of Cincinnati. Her work has recently appeared or is forthcoming in Mid-American Review, Whiskey Island, Minola Review, Devil’s Lake, Ninth Letter, and Guernica. She serves as assistant blog editor for So to Speak: a feminist journal of language and art.