Under deep water I found you,
in a jar as big as my head.
Bubbling and poised to explode,
your rage made the glass hot in my hands.
She warned me not to,
but I carried you anyway.
Past those sand-colored walls,
the pool in which you should not swim,
the quilts under which you could not sit,
the shoes you could not wear,
I carried you -- my treasure,
my foundling, my jewel beyond compare,
my arboretum in a jar.
In the gloom where you had grown
-- in spite of it all --
your skin became the mottled red
of a bruise.
At the top of the bottle-glass stairs,
your bubbling subsided.
But even in your new room --
the one I picked out for you,
with its tower view and its sunlight all day --
you seethe and you bubble,
a veritable forest of tangles.
I wonder if I will ever get you straight.