music poetry WRITING



Fingers bury themselves in heaven
To experience a momentary touch of

They speak movement and swallow
The translated language of the God(s)

Can you feel the warmth of their reach, or the lashing born from fistfuls of captivity?

Many want to go home but keep it a secret because their swim buddy has drowned before them. So much time is spent staying above water that the float becomes forgotten along with the weightlessness of letting go, and its irony. I was thirteen when I learned how to swim, not because anyone taught me, but because I’d been left at a stranger’s place for the summer; their apartment complex had a pool, and their children, older than me, would command their pit bull to bite me unless I played Marco Polo. So I formed the idea that people were animals that collected lives, hoping to imprison them for the purpose of teaching them unquenchable thirst, that they might command whatever they pleased for entertainment sake. Decades later the idea lingers.

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