Batter my heart, three-person'd God ; for you
As yet but knock ; breathe, shine, and seek to mend ;
That I may rise, and stand, o'erthrow me, and bend
Your force, to break, blow, burn, and make me new.
I, like an usurp'd town, to another due,
Labour to admit you, but O, to no end.
Reason, your viceroy in me, me should defend,
But is captived, and proves weak or untrue.
Yet dearly I love you, and would be loved fain,
But am betroth'd unto your enemy ;
Divorce me, untie, or break that knot again,
Take me to you, imprison me, for I,
Except you enthrall me, never shall be free,
Nor ever chaste, except you ravish me.

-John Donne


The Problem with Being at the Bottom of the Ocean

{I sat down and wrote this story the other day}

I’ve been having this dream where I give birth in the ocean. With each wave’s rise and fall another water child dives beneath. I follow them down to the ocean’s bottom, and there they sit among the oysters. I wonder why they want to be here and who told them to come. I’d like to listen to their conversations but I can’t understand their language. I feel like a terrible mother– not understanding my own children. All the while, the problem with being at the bottom of the ocean is that you cannot tell the difference between salt water and tears. Somehow the children know this and they swim swiftly around me till my tears turn the shape and color of pearls and it’s clear that I am crying. “Why are you crying?” One asks. “Because we are down here with the oysters,” I say. “The oysters tell us where to go. They tell us who to see.” My youngest says. “I’d like to leave. There is too much water down here,” I say. With reluctance, they swim back into my womb and I carry them back to dry land.