Poetry

Jesus Christ said to love them
back, but oh, Messiah, it’s hard.
Let the waves of mirth break 
upon your breast; the ground will 
quake—and swallow 

 I'm sure that, after being

 cataclysmically submerged in water,

 any broken mountain

 becomes a memory of an unknown

Done with smoke, done with shatter, the shamed lead the shameful to the shore, with its boats of bones, ships of shadows, blind seers, and dead crews bending to oars.

It was a freezing day.  I mentioned something about the cold, when the uncle suddenly turned angry.  Loudly berating my comment, calling it unnecessary.

At the blood-draw, in the dentist's chair

and during similar situations,

I think about my premature daughter,

the first time I saw her,

hunger or exhaustion? thirst or panic?
amnesia sparked my creativity, gestures
from a foreign language, my ribs keep wanting to flip open
unaware my feathers are long gone,
my bones a mix of libraries and waste sites