USS Squalus, 1939/ Present
They hammered reports against
the steel hull of the conning
tower, repeating themselves
three times—two sailors so exhausted
they took it in turns to pound one letter each
and left the dead unmentioned
in their flooded compartments.
Then they paused, gasping, unsure
whether the ship above understood
such a weak signal. But the page loads grainy details so, from the airport, I can imagine unyielding seafloor. News breaks and washes over the numb rites of travel. A holiday waits, habitual and incomprehensible as the hourly recap—amplified, qualified:
“Conditions Satisfactory But Cold”
declared headlines about rescue
efforts in fog and surging waves;
families assumed a hopeful watch
without guarantee. Satisfactory
meant the crew huddled, ordered
quiet to conserve oxygen. They ate
canned pineapple. Cold seeped in—
unwelcome thoughts trailed after. And toxic
ideas are not rational. Nor are selves. They breach shadows. We board, though I cannot explain this willingness to entrust our bodies to some machines and not others, what instinct discerns. Obeying a habit of convenience, we pretend the clouds are rolling hills or waves. Gas entailed scaffolding as the plane trails
fumes, despite CO2 absorbent. To discourage
movement, to prolong life, officers allowed
their air to grow stale, noxious. They wrapped
themselves in wet blankets, drifted,
woke to the distribution of emergency
lungs; the men listened constantly for seawater
trickling nearer, and for what they hoped
would be lead boots overhead, then a bell
sealed to the hull, a knock to answer.