It is Like
BY CINDY JUYOUNG OK
the baby’s shock at first light, weeping.
The metaphors for panic dissatisfy me
by comparing the internal to the external
—weight, containment, suffocation,
screaming, itching—which it is not like.
I have known well molasses and bubbles
and I’m sorry but it is not a plural substance
nor is it a place, not an enclosed elevator or
some classy cliff. It is the moment of
the first, a moment that becomes a life.
It is like melting; it is like wanting and
even so it is like not wanting. It refuses,
I promise, all language, and requires
the ruination of the self, of narration.
The opposite of resignation, the startle
extends, leaving relief only in accepting
the diminishing options: sink water is cool
to the dunk, and a hum can slow the heart’s
beat. Physical exertion also confuses
memory into thinking there is no terror,
only strain. The baby, too, is tricked
eventually into betrayal—stroking light
switches, beginning to speak. But when
it is like what it is like, these materials
are too effortful and the quickening
song of the ringing phone does not console
when the body comes to be its panic.