How to Escape from Quicksand
Paul Hostovsky
When walking in quicksand country
carry a stout pole--
something long and pithy with a twist.
It will help you get out should you need to.
It's just ordinary sand
mixed with upwelling water--
water that wells up
the way tears do.
Don't struggle against it.
Its viscosity increases with shearing.
Instead, open your arms
as if to embrace an old enemy,
one who should have been a friend,
one who will not let go easily
should you try and pull away now.
Remember, pulling away
means working against the vacuum
left behind. If you open
you have nothing to fear. You'll float.
Floating means only
remembering that you're human.
Humans are buoyant and so
is a stout wooden pole--
so lay it down on the surface
and flop onto your back on top of it,
working it under your hips at right angles
to your spine. See, it keeps you from sinking
as you lift out first one leg, and then the other.
Take the shortest route to firmer ground.
Paul Hostovsky's poems have appeared in many magazines and
anthologies, including most recently: Voices from the Robert
Frost Place, Poetry East, The Atlanta Review, The Comstock
Review, The Lilliput Review, Rhino, and Slant. He lives in Boston
where he works as an interpreter for the Deaf.
Paul Hostovsky
When walking in quicksand country
carry a stout pole--
something long and pithy with a twist.
It will help you get out should you need to.
It's just ordinary sand
mixed with upwelling water--
water that wells up
the way tears do.
Don't struggle against it.
Its viscosity increases with shearing.
Instead, open your arms
as if to embrace an old enemy,
one who should have been a friend,
one who will not let go easily
should you try and pull away now.
Remember, pulling away
means working against the vacuum
left behind. If you open
you have nothing to fear. You'll float.
Floating means only
remembering that you're human.
Humans are buoyant and so
is a stout wooden pole--
so lay it down on the surface
and flop onto your back on top of it,
working it under your hips at right angles
to your spine. See, it keeps you from sinking
as you lift out first one leg, and then the other.
Take the shortest route to firmer ground.
Paul Hostovsky's poems have appeared in many magazines and
anthologies, including most recently: Voices from the Robert
Frost Place, Poetry East, The Atlanta Review, The Comstock
Review, The Lilliput Review, Rhino, and Slant. He lives in Boston
where he works as an interpreter for the Deaf.
How to Walk Down a Country Road
Felicia Mitchell
One. You don't really need a guide to help
You find the way.
Just follow all the doves
That gather on the wires until you see
No more. Then you will know you've gone so far
There are no wires or houses. Two. Avoid
Advice that says to face the traffic when
You're on a curve. Look at those doves.
They know
The difference between life and death is not
As easy as all that. It takes some sense
To cross the road when cars are tumbling down
Like cold, white water with no place for you
To navigate.
Three. Lose the road. You don't
Know country roads until you've stepped aside
Into somebody's pasture or a stream
With rocks as smooth as wings on doves-or stopped
Beneath an apple tree and eaten one
To prove you could survive in nature if
You really had to. Four. Turn back before
Your time runs out. Five. The doves may look
As if they're watching over you. They're not.
The crows aren't either. Not the cows, the leaves,
The lines on asphalt separating gray
From gray. You're on your own. Find your way home
Alone and then you'll know exactly what
It's like to walk right down a country road.
Felicia Mitchell teaches creative writing at Emory & Henry College.
Her poems appear regularly in journals such as Terrain, Many Mountains Moving,
and Survivor, and are found in a few anthologies and chapbooks. Many of her poems
touch on issues of abuse and the theme of psychological survival.
Felicia Mitchell
One. You don't really need a guide to help
You find the way.
Just follow all the doves
That gather on the wires until you see
No more. Then you will know you've gone so far
There are no wires or houses. Two. Avoid
Advice that says to face the traffic when
You're on a curve. Look at those doves.
They know
The difference between life and death is not
As easy as all that. It takes some sense
To cross the road when cars are tumbling down
Like cold, white water with no place for you
To navigate.
Three. Lose the road. You don't
Know country roads until you've stepped aside
Into somebody's pasture or a stream
With rocks as smooth as wings on doves-or stopped
Beneath an apple tree and eaten one
To prove you could survive in nature if
You really had to. Four. Turn back before
Your time runs out. Five. The doves may look
As if they're watching over you. They're not.
The crows aren't either. Not the cows, the leaves,
The lines on asphalt separating gray
From gray. You're on your own. Find your way home
Alone and then you'll know exactly what
It's like to walk right down a country road.
Felicia Mitchell teaches creative writing at Emory & Henry College.
Her poems appear regularly in journals such as Terrain, Many Mountains Moving,
and Survivor, and are found in a few anthologies and chapbooks. Many of her poems
touch on issues of abuse and the theme of psychological survival.
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