30
fingers icy and torn
a priest’s ragged fingernail
tracing over lines of scripture he has already burnt into
his memory
A holy duty performed
practiced and purposeful.
The wave bites me and I choke on foam
Brackish briny deaths
Seep into my lungs
But I am ready for this new god
He embraces me and takes the assassin out of my throat
I am still dead in his emptiness
I long to go back to the crest of the wave
Where I at least I knew I was wanted.
I am my father’s scar
I am the cinder of his fleshy carcass
Clawing its way out from the pyre back into the salt.
Gloomy by Darla Hagerman