Letter to Belgium

Never
have I been on that ocean between us
where waves bicker and jostle.
Perceived it, yes, prodded the surf
with a bare toe, rustled the waves
with my kneecaps, splashed a little water
on my chest before squatting,
not diving, in.
Seldom more.
But once, in deeper water,
catching the acid scent of life and
sharing the drudgery of plankton,
I lost bottom-
like feeling in the dark
for the first step down
to a place of presumed light.

At the time you were elsewhere.
Brussels. "Belgians," you've said,
"do not invite strangers into their homes."
Nightly I dream of a Belgian Atlantis:
strangers adrift like jellyfish
amid the tidal traffic, the seabed
smooth as wet cement beneath
the seaweed parks and coral monuments.

But what of the Belgians?
Why do they not congregate,commiserate,repent?
After all, small-fry swim fin to fin
hugging the current for dear life.
And you and I have sometimes shared
a midnight dive into a place
of presumed light.

Alan Elyshevitz