Letter from the Water..., by Sara Brickman

They do not want me to be a river, but I am unstoppable.
                 I am the perfect instrument. Capable
of every sound, but here the only sound you hear under
                                         me is No. Is, Please. The men
in uniforms strap them to the wood
                 and call it water-
boarding, like drowning is an amusing summer sport.
                                         They hood them into darkness, and tilt their heads
back, pour me up nose and throat until they can't breathe without sucking
                 me in. Inside the prisoners' lungs, I see only panic,
and mothers. The men in uniforms say they do this
                                         to get   “the information.”
I do not know what this   “getting”
                 means. I only know swallow
and crush
                                         undertow and rip-
tide. I have been
                 the moon's wife, but here I taste of mold
and rust.
                                         They line me up
with their scalpels, their chains,
                 their American pop music
played all night
                                         to drive the men crazy, to get    the information
I do not know what desperation
                 feels like
but I imagine it is why the water in these men
                                         crawls out of their eyes to say hello
                 Hello.
Strange, isn't it? To be 58% a thing and yet
                 recoil             when you hear its rush—
Don't you know this? Silly human
                                         with a dog-tag hanging round your neck,
that you are made of me? Connected
                 to all the humid rot in this dungeon air—
how you make a puppet of the current
                                         in you, soldier.
How fast you make an ocean into a gutter
                filled with blood and shit—
looking for answers? Like you could find an oracle
                                         in more death
you drainers
               of the heart. I made you.
Do you think the first creature crawled out of me
                                         to invent                                       torture?
I understand why you do this.
                                         I know what it is
               to close your eyes and see only the thousands of dead
someone has laid at your doorstep. You have filled me
                                         with shipwreck and slave-hold but still
you holler bold
               with your proud, American heart and I wish
                           I could stop flowing in you.
Wish I could return to the clouds,
               to kiss the lightning with my wet throat
but I am locked in your muscle
                          as you beat each man
                                         for praying in a language that looks
like waves. I have
               one muscle,
                          and it wraps around the entire earth.
It is a vengeful storm
               and I have learned from you how to cleave
                          waves from the marrow
how to lick clean.


Letter from the Water at Guantanamo Bay, by Sara Brickman