Or High Water

Do not lick and lap closer to my swinging feet. I do not see him or myself in your trillion thrashing throats as I sit over -looking your river Styx, watch yachts brush down your spine I don’t recognise their calligraphy Can’t see our faces summoned

back over your swell: a ridicule of truth. This story does not hold water anymore. There are too many holes in its hull; I’ll go down with the ship. But when I press your shell to my ear, I can make out his burring voice through the imperfect pink curl of it: Do not wait for the king tide to claim you. Call our name and tame it with your lungs.

LINE OF SIGHT BY JULIENNE PANCHO