CHARYBDIS

Mike Alexander

I bring a load of whites—wool sacrifice,

our lost cotton mesh, our warmth, sweat-stained,

reptilian skins shucked off, that we replace

in secret, streaked with venom, rattle-brained

secretions from the grass, a tire's screech,

convulsions.  Working in the basement, chained,

a tool bench, badly-stocked, just out of reach,

beside the storage bin below the stairs-

I lean into the Whirlpool, adding bleach

& Tide to gym socks folded into pairs,

an extra change of sheets, large undershirt

& underwear.  In antiseptic chores,

our nightmares gather strength.  Like week-old dirt,

our whites show the regrets, the faded vows,

perpetual mortgage of a ground-in hurt.

I've tried to pass for the exemplary spouse,

while turning like a termite in the wood,

like cracks in the foundation of the house,

I feel the mortar wash away for good.

I feel exposed to adder-lidded eyes.

I feel the Whirlpool rocking in my blood.

"Charybdis" appeared in The Weight of Addition: An Anthology of Texas Poetry (Mutabilis Press, 2007).

This poem was not just an exercise in terza rima, nor a study in mythology. My marriage was breaking down; I felt hurt & was hurtful, but I wasn't able to get enough perspective to fix things. In the poem, I ended up dissecting my hysteria through some dream imagery, some rote chores — not something I started out to do — until I ended up in Rilke's "You must change your life" territory. I was a little afraid of the poem once I'd finished it, as maybe we should be with poetry.