Not, exactly, green: closer to bronze preserved in kind brine, something retrieved from a Greco-Roman wreck, patinated and oddly muscular. We cannot know what his fantastic legs were like— though evidence suggests eight complexly folded scuttling works of armament, crowned by the foreclaws’ gesture of menace and power. A gull’s gobbled the center, leaving this chamber —size of a demitasse— open to reveal a shocking, Giotto blue. Though it smells of seaweed and ruin, this little traveling case comes with such lavish lining! Imagine breathing surrounded by the brilliant rinse of summer’s firmament. What color is the underside of skin? Not so bad, to die, if we could be opened into this— if the smallest chambers of ourselves, similarly, revealed some sky. From Atlantis, published by HarperCollins. Copyright © 1995 by Mark Doty.
This poem appears in an early collection of Doty’s work, a book he published in the wake of his partner Wally’s death from AIDS in 1994. As a graduate student, I sat in the audience in a Cal Poly lecture hall the year he was promoting this book, and I have never forgotten Doty, his sharing of his grief with a room full of strangers and his melancholic, resonant reading of this beautiful, hopeful poem. I love the musicality of the language (note the repetition of the soft /s/ sound), I love the vivid, lush imagery, and the turn toward surprise at the end stirs me toward reflection . . . what if the smallest chambers of ourselves, similarly, revealed some sky?
What do you think of this poem? What images or phrases do you find particularly poetic or lyrical?