considerations for quicksand

i was taught not to fight it
when the floor opens beneath you.
reading my survival guide
from the safety of the library.
outside it rained frogs & mice. 
i took notes. how did i know
so young to be always preparing
for the rapid release of stability.
cautious of sand boxes. what i didn't know
was where quicksand came from.
i assumed it might arrive
at any moment. i was right.
did not trust bath tubs or beaches 
but especially not evenings 
alone with my father. his beer bottle voice.
decapitated telephone.
the yard where i dug with a spoon
in search of dinosaur skulls.
buried my baby teeth, convinced
they might turn into a tree. 
step slowly. do not cry for help.
the sand can hear. knows thrashing.
find a branch to hand onto. 
i looked for arms. anyone's arms.
men's wiry hair. i read that it can always
be too late. too far into the swallow.
i believed though that i could
memorize these tactics 
& escape. have you ever watched
as a belief slipped through your fingers
just like a handful of sand?
goodbye instruction lullaby. 
here i am hanging on to the wrist
of a stranger. his breath 
smells like iron or blood. then i am
again in my bedroom feeling the floor.
the night has eyelashes. 
when you get out, run as far
as you can. you never know
just how wide the quicksand is.
you never know how much it wants.