eight greats ago one died in a storm on the high seas i never understood why i have this irrational fear of the ocean perhaps i am remembering a genetic retelling of blood archives
all the strings attached and here I am, running with scissors and trimming along the edges I stand peering into the void (all the while knowing it’s looking back) not beyond help these ropes thrown into the pit fashioned into ladders snakes suddenly surface and games are bored to play
we wake, throw the covers back produce sweat, tears, dust and laundry repeating the endless repetition of putting back into place that which has been disturbed recreating scenes out of magazines (within our means) adjusting that one crooked picture frame & bringing life back into alignment
We walk forward, each foot One in front of the other Each step in defiance & self-reassuring
kneeling down, head bowed, i have seen the message clear; that’s not my handprint.