Our shoreline speaks of night; we can’t hear it but we can see its mouth move.
I am at the ready for god, but let’s be honest.
I gloss over the jetty, watch a seaflower hold its breath between the rock;
I hold my breath to move between the veil.
Miracles, we sing.
Death only happens to the living; even the quietest corners
pale away. We grope at rooms of mirrors, through tufts of flora,
for the rose of Jericho. Let me tumble to resurrection &
stop me from sleeping all day. I have barely seen the sun. I won’t wake up
until I have forgotten the scent of absence. There is an obscene goneness
in my palms.
Somewhere on land we dirge through the malaise. I am nothing
more than a girl who cries on balconies
at this point at this point I am nothing more than the balcony.
I gaze at the petals; they gaze at my wound.
I’m so wound-bound. I’m so lost to the vanity
of staying. Stay. (more…)